


Measuring Up

by violentcrumbles



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Coffee Shops, Fluff, Food Porn, M/M, Pastries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 01:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9268349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentcrumbles/pseuds/violentcrumbles
Summary: “How was it?” Mick called out behind him.Len turned. Mick nodded toward the croissant balanced carefully on top of the pastry box, a noticeable chunk missing. “Best in the state?”“Honestly?” said Len as the door swung closed behind him. “It was a little dry.”In which Mick owns a bakery, and Len is secretly a professional restaurant critic who loves Mick's pastries, but will never say that to his face.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because every fandom needs a bakery AU.
> 
> Thanks to tatterhood both for the title, and for agreeing to beta this for me back when I told her, "It might be a little long, like maybe 5-7k".

Mick grumbled as he threw the last batch of croissants into the oven and dusted the excess flour off his hands. Last batch for now anyway. He’d need to make up another before the lunchtime rush for croissant sandwiches, but he didn’t know when he’d have the time. His mixer had crapped out again this morning, and this time Mick wasn’t sure even he’d be able to fix it.

He looked over at the back counter; the bread dough was still rising and the tarts needed to cool a little more before he added the filling. He grabbed a set of clean measuring cups, ready to start making up some more pie dough, but then sighed and pushed them aside. He went over to the mixer. He’d need to get it working before he could bake anything else.

He opened up the mixer’s casing to take another look. It wasn’t sentimentality that made him keep the damn thing running. Naw, the thing was older than Mick and up until the last few months had run perfectly. Mick respected that kind of loyalty. That, and the fact he couldn’t afford to buy a new one. Crap, he barely made enough money to pay the morgage on this place and pay his one employee as it was. Speaking of, it was almost seven now, if Amaya didn’t get here soon, Mick would have to serve the first few customers himself.

Mick _hated_ serving the first few customers himself.

He swore as he realized just how close to seven it was, and he still had to fill the cherry tarts and ice the lemon cakes… He chuckled darkly to himself as he abandoned the mixer to start spooning cherry filling into a pastry bag.

“You’d think I’d have it figured out by now,” he muttered as he piped the filling into the tiny little crusts, “Only been doing this my whole goddamn life.”

Mick was placing the last whole cherry on top of the last tart, tweaking the stem slightly so it stuck out at just the right jaunty angle, when he heard the bell over the front door ring. Thank God.

“Amaya,” Mick called out, as he picked up the tray of tarts and carried them out to the front, “get your ass back here quick, the mixer’s on the fritz and I--”

Mick stopped in the open doorway that separated the kitchen area from the counter and customer seating. Just inside the front door stood a man in an expensive looking coat eyeballing the bakery with apparent interest, eyes flicking from the long wooden counter to the glass display case to the small tables along the front window with their chairs still upturned on them. He was unwinding a scarf from his neck with quick, fluid movements, and turned sharply at the sound of Mick’s voice.

Mick just had time to notice a flash of smile and salt-and-pepper hair arching into the sharpest widow’s peak he’d ever seen before he caught the guy’s eyes and oh. Oh damn. He couldn’t make out what color they were at this distance--that’s what Mick got for living fast without dying young--but the man’s eyes flashed with humor and intelligence, like he was the only cat in a world full of mice, and he was going to enjoy playing with his prey before eating them alive. He looked like he was smart, he was a dick, and he knew it.

He was gorgeous.

“You’re not Amaya,” Mick said.

The man quirked an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t look like a ‘Mama Rory’, but I’m not one to assume,” he drawled, turning toward the front window, where the words “Mama’s Rory’s Bakery” could be read in reverse on the glass. He had a mole halfway between his left eye and ear. It might as well have been a goddamn beauty mark. Mick wanted to lick it.

Mick snorted as he set the tray of tarts on the counter. “Mama Rory’s been dead thirty years. Now what do you-- Fuck.” Mick swore as the timer for the croissants went off. He pointed a finger still caked in flour and tart filling at the man. “Stay.”

He turned to go into the back, then paused, “And don’t steal any goddamn tarts.”

Mick scowled at himself as he walked back into the kitchen. _Smooth, Mick. Real smooth_.

 

* * *

 

Len bristled as the baker walked out of sight into the kitchen area. “Stay”? _“Stay”_? Like Len was some kind of servant or dog he could just order around. Len sneered. He’d already noticed the worn counter, the tarnished finish on the edging of the display case, and the mismatched tables and chairs before he’d seen the man. The overall look was old and outdated, but not in a way that screamed “intentional hipster vintage”--more  “put me out of my misery.” Len chuckled, between that and the behavior of the assumed owner, Len’s review of this place was going to be _vicious_ , even by his standards.  

Oh yeah. This was going to be fun.

Shame, too. The baker was, bluntly, straight out of one of Len's more X-rated dreams. . Thickly muscled chest barely contained behind a tank top, a jawline you could found America on, plush full lips, and the whole package all tied up in a worn apron like an early present.

_Happy Birthday to me._

And that voice--deep, with a rumbling thunder that made Len shiver despite his best efforts. Even the extensive scarring Len had seen running the length of the man’s arms and across his chest hadn’t lessened the image. If anything, they’d only enhanced it. They added an element of danger and well, Len had always been attracted to trouble. He wanted to know where those scars came from, and find out _exactly_ how far they went.

And for the very literal cherry on top, the man had even been carrying a tray full of Len’s favorite desserts.

He was gorgeous.

But then he’d had to open his damn mouth and be an obnoxious asshole like every other head chef--pastry or otherwise--that Len had ever met.

Len sighed and walked up to the front counter. He leaned his hip against it, and swiped a finger along the top just next to the edge of the tray. Clean, at least. That was something. Just to be safe, Len grabbed a paper napkin from the dispenser by the register and wiped his fingers. He could always look up the health inspector’s report later. The things that went on in the commercial kitchens in Central were frankly shocking. Part of Len’s mind enjoyed a quick daydream about the sort of shocking things he could be doing in this particular commercial kitchen, while the rest went back to cataloguing details: past posted hours with no cashier, no fixed menu, only a chalkboard with hastily rewritten listings and pricing. And apparently no espresso machine. The place was beyond sad.

“You gonna want a croissant?” Yelled the man from the kitchen.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Len asked, half actual question, half shock at being yelled at.

“I said, ‘You gonna want a croissant?’ They’re just out, but I ain’t carrying a hot pan all the way out there if you don’t want one.”

“No. Thanks.”

A moment later the man reappeared, wiping his hands on a dishtowel that he slung over a broad shoulder. “So what do you want?”

“You talk to all your customers this way?”

“Naw, only the ones who act like they’re too good for this place.”

Len froze, shocked.

The man smirked. “Yeah, I noticed. Not as dumb as I look. Now what do you want?”

Well, if he was going to be like that about it…

“I don’t know,” Len said as condescendingly as he could. “I have a _very_ important meeting today with some other people who share my _very_ high standards. Why don’t you just give me a dozen of what you consider your best, and we’ll see if that’s good enough.”

The man glared at Len. For a long moment he didn’t move; then, with a tic of his jaw, he turned and grabbed a cardboard box and started filling it. Len leaned back to see what the man was grabbing out of the case. To his surprise, rather than grab a dozen of a single item, he was picking and choosing one or two from each of the selections of cakes and pastries on display.

“They’re all the best,” the man said as he laid a cherry tart carefully into the box. Len took a moment to marvel at the skill and delicacy that was apparent in those large, rough hands, then gave himself a mental shake.

“Best in the goddamn city,” said the man as he folded up the lid on the box. “Those croissants you didn’t want are the best in the goddamn state.”

“I’m sure they are,” Len scoffed. “What kind of coffee you got?”

“Black.”

“Well then, I’ll have a small black coffee too. Please.”

The coffee was, Len grudgingly allowed, both poured efficiently (and by someone with excellent triceps, not that Len noticed), and of excellent quality.  

“Total’s $26.73.”

“Oh, you know what, throw in a croissant for me too. To go.” Len couldn’t resist a smirk at the man’s flat glare. Yes, this review was going to be a _delight_ to write.

The man stomped off and returned with a single croissant in a small paper bag. He rang up Len’s new total. “$28.62.”

Len handed over two crisp twenties. While the man counted out his change, Len idly tore a corner off the croissant and popped it in his mouth. His knees immediately went weak and he grabbed the counter as his eyes rolled back in his head. Oh god. Len had had pastries by Michelin rated chefs that weren’t as good as this. Hell, Len had had orgasms that weren’t as good as this.

The croissant was rich and buttery but still somehow so light and flaky, that after the satisfying crispness of the outer layer, the entire thing almost seemed to dissolve in his mouth, leaving behind both a warm feeling of contentment, and a desperate need for more. The fact that it was still warm from the oven only added to the sense of absolute bliss, the likes of which Len had never before experienced.

Len’s eyes fluttered open, right before the man looked up from the register and reached out to hand Len his change. His fingers brushed Len’s palm as he passed him his money, and Len’s knees nearly went weak again. He steeled himself just enough to pocket the bills, before dumping the few coins into an empty jar labeled “TIPS.”

“For the excellent service,” he said, frankly impressed at his own ability to be such an asshole while his body was still reeling from such a life changing experience.

The man clenched his fists, and placed them both slowly, deliberately on the counter, knuckles down so the joints cracked as he leaned forward. His eyes flashed as he breathed out slowly through his nose, jaw clenched in absolute rage. Len held his breath as the air crackled with a charge between them. His heart beat faster. Len was certain he should be terrified. He was _thrilled_.

Just at that moment, the front door burst open with the chime of the bell above it and a beautiful young woman rushed in. “I’m sorry, Mick! I know, I know. I didn’t mean to be late, but there’s bad ice, you should be thankful your commute is what it is.” She stopped as she noticed Len, and gave him a quick scan. “Who’s this?”

She then rounded on the man and put her hands on her hips. “Mick, tell me you are not making that face at a paying customer.”

The man, _Mick_ , scowled even deeper. Len stared straight into his eyes and slowly smiled before turning on all his charm as he collected his purchases and sauntered over to the young woman. “Leonard Snart. Please, call me Len. And you must be the lovely Amaya that our friend _Mick_ here mistook me for. I must say I’m flattered by the comparison although it hardly does you justice.”

Rather than the giggle or awkward smile he’d been expecting, Amaya merely gave him a flat “Are you shitting me?” look. Oh, Len liked her. Len liked her a lot. She reached out and opened the door for him, then stepped away as Len caught it with his foot. Len nodded in thanks, barely containing his excitement in the knowledge that he was only a few steps from his car where he would be out of eyesight and could enjoy the rest of his near-literally divine croissant in peace. Just a few more steps to freedom.

“How was it?” Mick called out behind him.

Len turned. Mick nodded toward the croissant balanced carefully on top of the pastry box, a noticeable chunk missing. “Best in the state?”

“Honestly?” said Len as the door swung closed behind him. “It was a little dry.”

 

* * *

 

Dry? Dry!?! Who the fuck did that fox-faced little weasel think he was anyway, calling Mick’s croissants dry?

Mick picked up the mass of bread dough and slammed it down on the counter. In one practiced movement, he folded the dough in half, pressing forward with the heels of his hands, before grabbing the far end of the dough, lifting the whole thing up again, slamming it down, then repeating the whole process.

If Amaya hadn’t come in when she had… Mick grunted as he threw the dough down again and kneaded it roughly. If Amaya hadn’t come when she had, Mick didn’t know what he would have done. He’d been working on his temper; Hell, he’d been working on his temper ever since his grammy had made it a condition of her taking him in after juvie. When he was seventeen and angry at the world and everyone in it, she’d kept him, even when everyone else left of his family had turned him away, asking only for the promise that he keep his fire to the ovens and his punching to the dough.

She’d taught him everything she knew in that little kitchen where she made enough cakes and bread to sell to the neighbors to keep them both fed every time Mick got laid off from a different job. And she’d only ever gotten mad when he’d over-whipped the egg whites or gotten locked up again before the holiday baking rush. Mick might have named this place for his mother, but his grandmother was the one he had to thank for it. God rest her hard-drinking, blaspheming, poker-cheating soul.

But that man today--Len--had made Mick want to break his promise like no one else. The way he’d leaned all over Mick’s counter like he owned the place, long fingers running along the grain of the wood. That look in his eyes, calculating, like he was sizing Mick up. Like he had the kind of smarts that usually sent Mick running, but this time just made Mick wanna snap back instead. That dark, dry sense of humor, trying to make jokes _at_ Mick, not at his expense. And that last shot as he’d sashayed out the door, it wasn’t like a “Fuck you,” more like a “We both know I'll fuck you up, and you’re gonna love it.”

Mick threw the bread down again. Or maybe he was just projecting. It wasn’t exactly easy to keep an active social life when you were up at 4 am, seven days a week to start baking. Not to mention the 12–14 hour days, the paperwork, the orders from suppliers who’d try to nickel-and-dime you for every goddamn thing. Living in the tiny apartment above the bakery didn’t exactly help either.

A bar or something Mick could pass on his way home--someplace to pick up some company, even just for a night--that would be one thing. Maybe one with a dark alley out the back, or a short cab ride to a nice apartment. Just a quick, meaningless release of tension. God, that would be nice. It’d been way too damn long.

Still, even if it was too tiny and run down for Mick to bring even the easiest fuck back to, Mick was lucky the bakery had come with that apartment. He didn’t regret sinking all his life savings and his grandmother’s life insurance payout into Mama Rory’s. After all, what other chances did a high school dropout with a criminal record have? He was proud of his bakery and the work that he put into it, but it would be nice to go home to somewhere without the lingering smell of powdered sugar for once, and maybe with another warm body instead.   

Ah, who was he kidding. Just dragging himself up the stairs at the end of the day was hard enough. It’s not like Mick would even have the energy to do anything fun even if he did have a nice place to bring company back to.

Maybe someone feisty, with enough years on him to know what he was doing. Who wouldn’t just let Mick put him in his place but would push back, want to give as good as he got. Now _there_ was a thought.

Mick scowled as he realized the direction his thoughts had taken and threw the dough down again, hard enough to rattle the metal counter.

“...Mick. Mick. Mick. Mick!” Amaya stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the front. Mick hadn’t noticed her there.  

“What?” he snarled.

“Whatever you’re doing back here, cut it out. You’re scaring the customers.”

“Both of them? Mick pushed the dough to the corner of the counter. It needed to rest before he formed it into loaves anyway.

When he turned back, Amaya was giving him a long, assessing look.

“What?”

“That guy this morning really riled you up, huh?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mick said, as he walked over to the dry storage to grab another bag of flour. “It’s not like he’s coming back.”

 

* * *

 

“You have to go back.”

“I know…” Len groaned, leaning back in the plush leather chair. He’d gotten to his desk, notepad out, ready to sample and dissect each of the pastries, but when he’d taken his first bite of a cheese danish he’d immediately picked up the box and carried everything into his editor’s office. Partially because Sara would kill him if he didn’t share--cheese danishes were her _favorite_ \--and partially because he was pretty sure he couldn’t stop himself from eating the entire dozen and needed her to save him from himself.

“No, you really, really have to go back. I’m not saying this as your editor for any sort of journalistic integrity crap. I am saying this as a woman, and also your boss. If you don’t bring me more of those double chocolate muffins, you’re fired.”

“No, I’m not.”

“No, you’re not, but suitable punishment will be had if you deprive me of this. Maybe _La Mesa Caliente_ deserves a follow-up review.”

“Ugh, _anywhere_ but there,” Len said as he licked a finger and dabbed up the last few flakes of pastry. As a professional restaurant critic, he usually ate sparingly, having only a few bites of each dish before moving on. He and Sara had eaten the entire box, down to the last bite of tart and last crumb of scone. He was pretty sure he couldn’t move. He might die. But what a way to go.

At least he didn’t really have to be anywhere the rest of the day. Aside from early seatings and the occasional lunch, his job really didn’t take up that much of his daylight hours. Sure, he was often up until 4 am working on his columns, but his work cycle was his business.   

“What was it you said about their gazpacho? That it tasted like a can of Spaghettios seasoned by--”

“--a six year old with a toothpaste fixation.” Len grimaced. “And I should know.”

Len loved Lisa, but her attempts to “help” him make dinner when she was a kid were the main reason he’d become a food critic in the first place.

He smiled. When he was in high school he’d snuck them both into one of those “Taste of Central City” fairs, hoping to score them some free food and fill Lisa up on something a little more nutritious than powdered mac’n’cheese. He’d been so underwhelmed by the offerings that he’d actually followed his English teacher’s advice and used his words, rather than his illegal actions, to vent his frustration. He was shocked when the letter to the editor he’d sent to the _Central City Picture News_ had actually been published, and even more shocked at the check they’d sent back with a request for more.

And like that, “Captain Culinary’s Cuisine Critique” had been born.

It had taken a few years to build up a following and really find his voice. At first, Len had always tried to find at least one thing positive to say about each restaurant, but then he realized that people liked it when he said what he _really_ thought. Within a few more years, he was the most popular restaurant critic in the _state_. Well, popular amongst those who read his syndicated column at least. But what were a few death threats from chefs here and there? That’s why he had a secret identity after all. As long as no one knew that Captain Culinary was actually Leonard Snart, he was fine.

Besides, it turned out a life of infamy paid well. Very, _very_ well.     

“Don’t worry, I’m definitely going back. Have to get those two or three visits in for an ‘authentic experience’ anyway.”

“Damn, right you do.” Sara gave a quick flick of her wrist, “Now get out of here. I have interns to yell at and a food baby to digest, neither of which will be pretty.”

Len chuckled, and tried to push himself up from his chair. Tried.

“I’m not sure I can,” he groaned.


	2. Chapter 2

Mick was going over the books while the last round of snickerdoodles was baking and sighed. His supplier was upping the price on cake flour again. He wasn’t going to disgrace his grammy’s cake recipes by using all-purpose flour, she’d rise up out of her grave to smack him with a spoon if he tried, but cutting out cakes would leave him with an empty bottom row on the display case.

He _could_ try to make something new… He knew his grandmother’s recipes by heart, but maybe he could try to come up with something on his own? Mick’s heart beat faster. He had been thinking of tweaking that apple pie recipe into some kind of a crumble instead... or there was that baklava idea he’d come up with. After all, did have an in for some locally sourced honey... Mick hesitated. He’d never tried any of his own recipes before, just the ones that had been handed down by his grammy from her grammy from her Oma all the way back to the Old Country.

He growled and scratched out the last few figures he’d written down with more force than was strictly necessary. He’d scrape by with the cakes somehow. Mick stuck with what he knew and what he knew he was good at. Historically, him getting creative tended to end in ashes and tears. Literally.

Maybe he could find a new flour supplier. Mick huffed. Yeah, using all that spare time he had when he wasn’t lounging around his penthouse and fighting off hordes of underwear models.  

Mick’s melancholy was broken by Amaya’s voice from the front. “Mick! You owe me an hour overtime!”

Mick frowned. He and Amaya didn’t have any bets currently running except--

“Oh, _Hell_ no.”

Mick stood up from his desk/least sugar covered prep station and stormed to the front counter. There, he saw a familiar form, decked out in navy blue this time, some kind of sophisticated cut that Mick would bet all the money he didn’t have was designer, with a tan scarf wrapped around his long, graceful neck. The man turned and winked when he saw Mick.

“You. Out.” Mick snarled, pointing at the door.

“Mick!” Amaya chided.

“Yes, Mick,” said Len, “that’s no way to treat a customer. Especially one here to make another large order.”

Mick hesitated, Len was the only customer in the store, and he could definitely use the sale, but still, a man had his pride. And Len just pushed all of Mick’s buttons. He made Mick want to shake him or throttle him or find some way to shut up his smart mouth…

Mick crossed his arms, “So all your ‘very important’ friends didn’t think my croissants were too dry then, huh?” He tried to keep the hurt and sting out of his voice, but if the pitying look Amaya shot him was anything to go by, he did a piss poor job of it.  

Len’s face softened, “I suppose they were acceptable.” He hesitated, “I have been ordered to buy more of those double chocolate muffins…”

“I’ll get that for you right away!” Amaya said, with her cheery customer service smile, “And that was another assorted dozen, as well?”

“Please. And different ones from last time if you can.”

“Of course!”

Mick watched as Amaya boxed up a selection of goodies, only putting one or two back when she grabbed something Mick had given Len last time. Mick was impressed, she knew him too well.

“And a small coffee too, please.”  

“I’m afraid we don’t have anything fancy, just black,” she said apologetically. “But we do have cream and sugar.”

“I know. That’s fine.” Len looked directly at Mick and smiled that shit eating grin. “But I’ll take some sugar if you’re offering.”

Mick rolled his eyes and walked back into the kitchen. _That smug, stuck up little…_ Mick turned off the oven timer just before it went off and pulled the tray of snickerdoodles out of the oven. “I’m gonna wipe that goddamn look off his goddamn face.”

Mick grabbed a plate and lifted one of the fresh cookies right off the pan with a spatula. He slid it onto the plate and walked back to the front counter just as Amaya handed Len his change. “Here,” he said, clattering the plate down next to the box with “Mama Rory’s” stamped on the lid. He leaned in. “Careful, it’s _hot_.”

A brief flash of surprise crossed Len’s face before it settled back into haughty indifference.

“Is it a dinner plate served on a smaller plate?”

Mick grit his teeth. Maybe his portion sizes were a little large, but they were the size Grammy had always made for him. Sure, most people didn’t have quite the appetite of a teenage Mick Rory, but still.

“It’s a snickerdoodle. On the house. What do you think?”

Len carefully picked up the edge of the cookie, bending it gently until a small piece tore off, then locked eyes with Mick before slowly putting the piece in his mouth. He closed his eyes as he chewed. Mick waited impatiently.

“Well,” he finally asked. It didn’t take a man that long to decide what he thought about a cookie. “Better than the croissant?”

“It is,” Len said thoughtfully. He finally opened his eyes and looked at Mick through those long lashes. “But I suppose the bar was pretty low to begin with.”

Mick growled and stomped back into the kitchen. He grabbed a bag of brown sugar and the butter he’d left out to soften. He was going to bake something that Len would have admit was delicious if it killed him.

He didn’t notice Len slide the rest of his cookie into the box of pastries, or the look of disbelief that Amaya gave them both.  

 

* * *

 

Len managed to stay away an entire week before going back to Mama Rory’s. Sara had told him to lie low. Apparently she had been sent a link to an entire subreddit of angry chefs trying to figure out Captain Culinary’s identity. None of them were even close--Len’s favorite theory was the criminal mastermind in disguise one, although Sara preferred Gordon Ramsey in drag, herself--but they decided that being a slightly less familiar face around the restaurants he was about to hit was probably a good plan.

He should have stayed away from Mama Rory’s even longer but, well. There was only so much a man could take. He sometimes had to adjust himself if he even thought about that snickerdoodle for too long. Besides, it was Sara’s idea for him to branch out from regular restaurants to reviewing “alternative options” anyway. If she thought Len was going to be caught dead in a cupcakery or waiting in line at a gourmet food truck then that was her problem. He hadn’t even meant to go into Mama Rory’s that first time either. He’d just seen it while driving and thought about how funny it would be if his next review was on the most boring, run of the mill bakery he could find, instead of some gourmet delicatessen. And look how that turned out.

The bell dinged as Len entered the shop, still savoring the irony. Amaya was at the front counter, and looked up from playing some sort of game on her phone when she heard the noise.

“Oh hey, Len,” she smiled, and there was something knowing in that smile that Len didn’t like.

He made a quick vow to himself to make sure that she and Sara never met.

“Mick’s not in right now,” she continued. “There was a problem with the fruit vendor. If there’s anything on the news about a fistfight at the farmer’s market tonight, I’m officially pleading ignorance.”

Len had been stomping the late January slush off his shoes on the doormat, but paused at her words. “The farmer’s market? You mean he gets his ingredients locally?”

“As much as he can. It’s harder this time of year, of course, but--” She crossed her arms and over-exaggerated a frown, “If you’re gonna do something, girlie, you might as fucking well do it right.” She had deepened her voice as much as she could into what was a clear imitation of Mick’s rumbling baritone. Len thought it was a poor substitute.

“So now that the cat’s away, what other secrets are you keeping from me? Is Mick always that friendly or am I just special?”

Instead of answering, Amaya just looked at Len. Again, Len was struck by her similarity to Sara. Not physically, although Len appreciated both of their gorgeous curves and absolutely devastating beauties as much as the next man. When he went for women, either of them would be exactly his type, despite the fact they could both probably break him in half. Or maybe because of it. But their similarity was more in the way they seemed to look right through him, like they knew what he was about to say before he said it, and bought absolutely none of it.

Oh no, they were definitely never allowed to meet.

“What can I get for you today then,” Amaya asked, pointedly changing the topic.

Len nodded, if that’s how it was going to be then fair enough. He respected her protecting her employer. He briefly wondered if that’s all there was to their relationship, but quickly banished the depressing thought. Until proven otherwise, a man could dream.

Wait. What? Len’s forehead furrowed as he thought about it. He didn’t actually want a relationship or anything like that with _Mick Rory,_ did he? Sure the man was attractive, and Len had entertained more that one late night thought about stripping Mick out of that apron and getting him all hot and bothered in a non-oven related context, but that was it, right?

Yes, of course it was. Len didn’t do relationships, and certainly not with any short tempered, hot headed pastry chefs, no matter how much his cookies made Len want to do unspeakable things, then curl up somewhere warm and safe for a long nap.

So it was just lust. That was fair, Len was definitely familiar with lust. In his opinion, that wasn’t even a conflict of professional interest. He’d slept with plenty of chefs before eviscerating them in his reviews. Some he’d even gone back to after the reviews had been published. There really was nothing like angry sex after all.

“Well?” asked Amaya.

Len hummed, both in satisfaction at getting that little personal confusion cleared up, and in contemplation of the dessert case. He noticed that the cookies on display were all much smaller than the one Mick had given him. Good. Every chef knew portion control was one of the key steps to profitability.  

“I think, perhaps something with less much sugar this time. I do have to watch my girlish figure.”

“How about some homemade breads?” Amaya indicated the far wall behind the counter, where a dozen different styles of loaves and buns were on display. “I could make you a selection of different rolls. The sourdough is especially popular. The starter was brought over by Mick’s great- great-something grandmother when she immigrated back in the 1800s.”

Len froze in the act of reaching for his wallet. “How have the hipsters never found this place?” he blurted out.

Amaya laughed. “Oh my god, can you imagine? Mick would have a coronary the first time someone asked if we had anything gluten free.”

“Or maple bacon.”

“Cake pops.”

“Mini-cupcakes.”

Amaya laughed again. She selected an assortment of half a dozen rolls and put them in the bag. “Did you want any butters or toppings?”

“Let me guess, he churns the butter from whole cream himself.”

Amaya didn’t laugh.

“You’re kidding me.”

“I mean, I think he just uses a standing mixer but yeah, has his own blend of different herbs and things he adds too.” Amaya shrugged. “Anyway, it’s a dollar per two ounce tub.”

“I thought most places gave you one or two for free with purchase?”

“Most places probably do,” Amaya said slowly. “But most places can also afford a cappuccino machine and an oven that isn’t older than the staff.”

Ah. Well, that explained a lot. Len had Amaya add one tub of rosemary oregano spread and two tubs of salted honey butter to his order, then added a five to the tip jar. She nodded in thanks.

As he was walking out he realized something. “Wait,” he said, holding the door for a pair of white-haired old ladies to enter. “Did you say _‘an_ oven’, singular?”

“See you next time, Len,” Amaya waved before turning to serve the women, greeting them by name.

Len nearly stumbled on the way back to his car as his mind raced over everything he’d learned. Well, he’d gotten the background information he’d wanted for his review. Shame he couldn’t use any of it without his secret identity being revealed. Len frowned. Mick or Amaya would definitely figure it out if he used any of the specifics. Maybe he could use the information and just never go back?

Len sighed. No, there were enough angry chefs out there already. Even if Mick didn’t hate him after the review, any one of them would be willing to offer good money if Mick let it be known that he knew Captain Culinary’s secret identity. From what Amaya had said, he’d pretty much have to take the money. And after all, it wasn’t like Mick owed him anything.

Len’s stomach twisted unhappily at the thought. He opened the bag of rolls as soon as he sat down in his car and cranked the heater on. He was just hungry. He reached for one of the tubs of honey butter and the plastic knife Amaya had tossed in. That was all. He’d try some of the rolls, jot down enough details to write his review, then never have to worry about Mama Rory’s or anyone who worked there ever again.


	3. Chapter 3

_...the ambience of Mama Rory’s lies somewhere between that of a sketchy bodega and the kitchen of that one grandparent your parents warned you to never ask about “The War.”_

_But if anything, that only adds to the grubby charm of the place, making the confections to be found within true diamonds in the rough. The tartlets in particular shine like rubies and sapphires of cherry and blueberry decadence. Not to mention the lebkuchen and slices of schwarzwaldkuchen that would be enough to bring a smile to even that crotchy grandparent’s face, as long as you never mentioned their country of origin._

_And while we are on the subject of grubby charms…_

 

* * *

“Oh my God. Mick, have you seen this?” Amaya ran into the kitchen, still dressed in her jacket and knit hat. Mick looked up from the piping bag, he’d zoned out while decorating little swirls and flourishes on the sugar cookies and must have lost track of time again.

“Seen what?”

“Oh my God.” Amaya grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. Mick let her, if only because he was worried she was strong enough to do it without his help. “Look at this! My sister texted me this morning saying she’d seen Mama Rory’s in the newspaper…”

Mick jerked his head up. Fuck. Had some neighbor found out about his past and filed a complaint? He’d filled out every form he was supposed to and was well outside his probation period. He cursed, the money he’d used to buy the bakery he’d earned fair and square, but could he really prove that if he had to? Dammit, after all his hard work was some stupid thing he’d done in his past really going to fuck him over now that he was just starting to earn an honest living?

Mick held his breath as Amaya dragged him into the front of the bakery, expecting to be greeted by the blue flash of police car lights, or two or three cops waiting out front, maybe tapping their nightsticks against the glass.

There were definitely people waiting outside, but the sure didn’t look like cops. And there were way more than two or three of them.

“The hell?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t have time to get the full story. Apparently there was a review? Mick, the line goes around the block! I had to fight my way just to get through the door! Thank goodness you hadn’t unlocked it yet.”

Mick looked at the crowd of people, now starting to push and shove their way closer to the door. He looked over at his displays. He had plenty to make it through most of a normal day, but a crowd like this?

“I don’t have enough.”

Amaya looked at him in astonishment, then looked around, instantly sizing up the situation. “Okay, whatever’s easiest and fastest to bake, go make that. Make as much of that as you can. I’ll... I’ll charge double for everything, maybe that will slow the herd.”

Mick nodded and turned, before throwing one last quick glance out the front. “Five dollar surcharge for anyone with an undercut or Buddy Holly glasses.”

Amaya laughed and Mick grinned as he ran back into the kitchen and grabbed his measuring cups. He didn’t have time to wonder about this right now; it was time to bake his ass off.

Mick had run out of flour by noon; by three p.m., he'd sold the last of his flourless, egg free, vanilla blondie bars. He brought a couple of bottles of beer over to where Amaya was sitting at one of the small tables by the front window reading something on her phone. He’d had to shut the blinds when even the “Fuck off, we’re CLOSED” sign on the front door hadn’t stopped people from tapping on the glass or trying to wheedle their way in. The place was a mess, and Mick wasn’t even going to think about how late he’d be stuck cleaning up the kitchen, or all the emergency orders he still had to make from vendors before tomorrow. He just needed a minute to wind down first.

He kicked back in a chair and took a long drink. Damn, that hit the spot. Nothing like well earned beer after a hard day of work. And this was probably the hardest day of work Mick had ever had. He took another sip. He felt good. Exhausted, filthy, sweaty, but good. Even with closing early, they’d sold more today than they usually did all week. And with the frankly ridiculous prices Amaya had been charging by the end… Mick grinned, more cake flour was the least of the things he could buy now.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Amaya waved her phone at Mick. “I can’t believe it. Mick, Captain Culinary gave us a good review!”

“Captain…?”

“Captain Culinary. How have you never heard of him? Mick he is _the_ restaurant critic in Central City. Everyone I know reads his column.”

“That’s a stupid name.”

“Mick, no, you’re missing the point. Captain Culinary gave us a _good_ review. The reason he’s so popular is that he’s an absolute asshole. He’s vicious. He tears these restaurants apart and people go to them just to say they’ve been. I’ve heard he literally gets death threats for the things he writes about restaurants, especially because they’re all true.”

“The fuck did he say about my bakery?” Mick growled, snatching Amaya’s phone from her hand. He squinted at the tiny font.

“That’s just it, he loved Mama Rory’s. I’ve only heard of him ever giving one other positive review before, and that was to Hubby Hogg’s Bar-B-Que.”

“Ain’t that the barbeque sauce they sell at the grocery store?”

“Yes,” said Amaya. “Yes, it is. But it wasn’t before Captain Culinary reviewed it. Before that it was just a small joint in down in Southeast Central. Mick, this is huge.”

Mick read more of the review. Positive? This dick called his bakery a “rundown, worn out mess, more homely than homey” and…

“The fuck does he mean by ‘if you’re “lucky” enough to meet the owner and pastry chef, Michael “Mick” Rory, you’ll know. You would never think this pitbull-Humvee mix with the people skills of a poorly-trained grizzly would have the delicacy and precision to create such masterpieces--’ I’m going to kill him.”

“Well, he’s not wrong. Did you see where he called me ‘a beacon of joy and ferocious beauty’?”

Mick glared at her.

“Oh hush,” she said snatching her phone back. “From Captain Culinary that’s basically a marriage proposal. Besides, you have other things to worry about. You want me to stay and help clean up?”

Mick finished the rest of the beer and leaned back, popping the joints in his spine as he stretched. “Just sweep up out here and head on home. You can take everything in the tip jar too. You earned it.”

Amaya rolled her eyes, “I’m only not arguing with you because I have a thesis due and student loans. You know that right?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

She stood up and gave Mick a quick kiss on the cheek before grabbing both of their empty bottles and heading toward the broom closet. “If this keeps up you’ll be able to hire someone else to help out.”  

“Yeah, maybe.”

 

* * *

 

Outside on the sidewalk, Len slowed when he saw the closed shutters and huffed a laugh at the sign on the door. He raised his hand to knock anyway, then reconsidered. After the day he’d had, Mick was going to be in no mood to deal with Len, especially since it wasn’t like Len could tell him he’d been the one responsible for all the business. Mick had earned it too. Every word Len had written was the absolute truth. That was one of the things he prided himself on as a critic.

Len felt the corner of his mouth pull up in a smile and stopped. If anything he should be annoyed with himself for sharing this place, rather than pleased with its success. Morals were so inconvenient. If only he was a little more selfish, and he could have Mic--Mama Rory’s all to himself.  

 

* * *

 

Another week passed before Len went back to the bakery. It was one of the longest weeks of his life. Several other foodie blogs had picked up on Len’s “discovery” and reading their rave reviews had nearly driven Len to distraction. It wasn’t that they were clearly just following in his footsteps, that was annoying enough, but the fact that other people were getting Mick’s pastries when he wasn’t pissed him off. Look at what everyone was saying about Mick’s coffee cake, he hadn’t even tried it yet!

Len managed to hold off until a few minutes before 5 pm, not wanting to come any earlier and risk getting stuck in a crush of foodies waiting for ridiculous amounts of time in line just to be able to brag about the wait. By this point Mick should have figured out a new schedule and not have to close early too.

His calculations were correct, as always, and he was pleased to see that while there was a line, it was all firmly inside of Mama Rory’s and not spilling out onto the street. Amaya immediately pinged onto him the moment he walked in.

“Len! Go ask Mick if he’s done for today. I’m almost out of brownies and need to know if I should cross them off the menu.”

“Good afternoon to you too,” Len said as he walked around the end of the counter. Well, wasn’t this a treat, being invited into the inner sanctum sanctorum. He didn’t acknowledge any of those waiting in line but could feel their jealous glares at his back. Excellent. They should be jealous.

“So this is where the magic happens,” Len announced as he stepped into the kitchen. Wow, Amaya hadn’t been kidding when she talked about the age of the appliances. Everything looked like Mick must have gotten it third- or fourth-hand, with the exception of a gleaming, top-of-the-line mixer that looked brand new. For all the shabbiness of the kitchen, everything was impressively neat, each stand and pan clearly having its own place. Clean, too. Sure, it showed the wear of a full day’s baking, but there was none of the ground-in food and grime that so many of Central’s restaurants, even the most exclusive, had. A kitchen’s cleanliness was a clear sign of a chef’s dedication, and Mick was clearly exceptionally dedicated. Len liked that in a man.

Mick jerked at the sound of Len’s voice, from where he’d been staring at a stack of ledgers and scattered papers, with a yellow notepad under one elbow and a pencil tucked behind an ear.

“What are you doing back here?” he growled.

“Easy, Mick. I was invited in.”

“Like a vampire,” Mick grumbled, turning back to his papers.

Len laughed, “Exactly. Amaya wants to know if you’re baking anything else or if you’re done for the night.”

Mick rocked his chair back onto two legs and Len took advantage of the space to step closer to see what Mick had been working on.

“Kitchen’s closed!” Mick boomed. He rocked his chair back onto all four legs, suddenly much closer to Len than he’d been before. Len tried to ignore the heat he could feel so close to his side as he examined the papers.

“Is this yesterday’s balance sheet?” he asked, pointing at one of the papers. Mick nodded. Len reached for another one of the ledgers and flipped through it. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“What do you mean?”

Len looked up, “I mean, here in the debits column it just says ‘fruit guy $200’. Where’s the itemization? What was the fruit for?” Len sat down on the edge of the table, ignoring the dusting of flour and sugar as well as Mick’s surprised expression. He flipped through another few pages.

“Mick, I don’t see any sort of inventory and your profits column just has your daily take. Congratulations on that by the way… Wait, where are your recurring orders?”

“Recurring orders?”

Len looked up at the honest curiosity in Mick’s voice.

“I mean,” he said. “How do you keep track of what orders are coming in when?”

Mick shrugged, “I don’t? I just look around at what I have, and when I need new stuff I order it.”

“When you need new stuff…” repeated Len, flabbergasted. “You just keep all that in your head?”

Mick cracked his knuckles. “It’s not that hard.” His face darkened, “Or at least it wasn’t until a week or so ago. Some hoity toity critic called my place ‘sketchy’ and ‘grubby’. Asshole. If I ever find out who he is, I’m gonna show him what a ‘pitbull-Humvee mix’ can do.”

Mick glared off into the distance for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders, anger gone as quickly as it had appeared. “I guess hipsters like that sort of thing though. Now, I’ve got more of them than you can shake a stick at lining up to get in. It’s like I’m a goddamn Apple store.”

Len’s heart sank. He’d meant “sketchy” and “grubby” in… Well okay, not exactly in a nice way, but in a _familiar_ way. A place that you knew so well you couldn’t even see its faults. Still, it was probably for the best. Len’s review had been nothing but fawningly complimentary of Mick’s pastries at least, so there was no way he would ever link it to Len and his constant criticisms of Mick’s food. After all, Mick could never find out that Len was Captain Culinary.   

The ‘pitbull-Humvee’ mix part was completely true, although it perhaps said more about Len’s personal tastes than could be considered completely objective.  

“I don’t think you’re inept, Mick.”

Len added on quickly, “Even if some reviewer does.”

That was close. He looked down at the papers in his lap. He had learned enough about accounting when he’d worked for that bookie to know this was seriously complicated stuff, and the fact that Mick was apparently keeping most of it in his head?

“I’m actually incredibly impressed,” Len hesitated. This wasn’t any of his business, he was just here to grab a slice of coffee cake so his life could be complete, but… His fingers twitched, he did love putting things in order and getting the most out of every situation. He spoke slowly, “If you want, I could have a look at this, maybe find a way to make it a little easier to keep track? I’ve done... similar work before, and might even find a way to save you a few bucks here and there.”

After a moment of silence, Len looked up. Mick was sitting really, _really_ close to him, when did _that_ happen? He was also clearly thinking something through. Len waited, trying to still his hands.

“What’s in it for you?” Mick finally asked.

Good question. Len did’t really want to examine why he’s doing this either, thank you. He glanced around.

“Free pastries.”

“What?”

Len smiled, “Free pastries. You can pay me in free pastries. I’d hardly be the first person in the restaurant business to be paid under the table.” Len’s about to add more to that but caught himself in time. Fortunately, Mick didn’t seem to have noticed.

Mick took a moment to consider. “Seems fair.”

“Excellent,” Len reached out and snatched the pencil from behind Mick’s ear. As his fingertips skimmed across Mick’s temple, he could almost have sworn he felt a slight shudder. It was probably just Mick flinching at someone in his personal space so suddenly. Len would react the same. Len flipped to a new page in the ledger and started marking out some new columns, studiously avoiding looking at Mick.

“I’ll start with some of that coffee cake if you still have any,” he said airily. “I hear it’s passable. Not worth the wait in line, but passable.”

Mick grumbled a few choice words under his breath, then said, “Just come around the back next time.”

Len looked up, Mick appeared almost sheepish. It was an endearing look on him. He continued, “I keep it unlocked when I’m around anyway, and you’re doing me a favor so… don’t worry about the line, just come in the back. You can park there too, if you have a car. I know the meters…”

He trailed off. He didn’t look at Len, in fact he pretty obviously looked at anything _but_ Len. Len felt a warmth in his chest and couldn’t help the small smile that stole across his face.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

Mick grunted then cleared his throat. “I’ll go see about that cake.”

He walked out of the kitchen and Len’s eyes followed for a moment, before he shook his head and turned back to the books.


	4. Chapter 4

The next few weeks were some of the busiest of Mick’s life. And some of the longest. He was waking up earlier each morning to start baking increasingly huge amounts, but it seemed like they were selling out as fast as he could bake. Between baking, decorating, and ordering the supplies for more, he rarely got a chance to sit down until close, and then it was time to clean up and catch what few hours of sleep he could before starting all over again.  

One morning when he came downstairs to the bakery hours before dawn, the line outside had already started to form. He made up an extra pot of coffee and brought it out to the poor idiots waiting in the cold. It was the least he could do. They had to stay outside till Amaya arrived though. He wasn’t going to let anyone in his shop while he was too busy too keep an eye on them. Except Len, of course.

Mick tried not to think about Len too much. Well, that was easier said than done, but he tried not to think about about why he let Len get away with so much, at least. If he was honest, there was no way he could have kept up with everything without Len’s help, but he barely even knew the man and he’d let him into his kitchen and his finances. Mick still wasn’t sure which was more personal.

He couldn’t even figure out Len’s schedule. Sometimes he came in first thing in the morning and stole one of the prime tables in front, much to the annoyance of Mick’s actual paying customers. Sometimes he came in just a few minutes before closing to drop off the ledgers before dashing off to some important reservation or function.

Then there were the days like today, when he came in mid-afternoon and took over one of Mick’s sorely needed kitchen counters for several hours. Sometimes while he worked on the books he chatted with Mick, nothing too personal or deep enough to distract either of them, and sometimes he hung around for a while after he was finished. Today he wasn’t even working on anything, just reading a book, with his feet crossed under him on the seat like a child. Mick should kick him out. He would. Later.

“You know you could do that out front,” Len said without looking up.

Mick jerked, thinking he’d been caught staring. Len lowered the book and waved a hand at the rows of tiny chocolate leaves Mick was piping out to decorate the mint chocolate mousse cups.

“You have that whole long counter up there, and Amaya only uses part of it. You should use that space for your finishing work.” Len grinned, “Give your customers dinner and a show.”

Mick lifted an eyebrow, then raised one heavily scarred arm.

“I think I’m more likely to put them off their food.” He turned away, and went back to piping the leaves. He was fine with his scars, had accepted them for the punishment and reminder they were, but he didn’t want to see the revulsion in anyone’s eyes. In Len’s eyes.

Mick waited in the silence for Len to ask.

“Is that chocolate mousse?”

Mick exhaled, happy to accept the change in topic.

“Yeah, mint chocolate actually.” He hesitated. His grammy’s recipe was just for plain chocolate mousse, but Mick had thought that it wouldn’t be so bad to add a little creme de menthe for a bit of a grown up kick. It had tasted alright to him, but there still hadn’t been a single thing Len had tried that he didn’t find _some_ fault with. He was pretty sure Len was just doing it to be a jackass. After all, he still ate the damn things, but wasn’t sure if he wanted to test that idea on his first attempt at his own recipe.

“Well,” said Len, “Where’s mine?”

Asshole. “Fine.” Mick selected one of the more lopsided cups, because if Len wasn’t paying for it, he didn’t get the belle of the ball. He carefully pried up two of the chocolate leaves that had already hardened and arranged them just so on top. The mousse itself was in a fragile chocolate cup that he’d made earlier, so he quickly placed it on a plate to keep it from melting in his hands.

“Here you go, _boss_ ,” said Mick, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I hope it lives up to your standards...”

Mick crossed his arms and waited. Len turned the plate and examined every angle of the mousse, then leaned in close to it and waved a hand like he was wafting the smell of it toward him. Mick rolled his eyes.

“Just eat the damn thing.”

Len picked up the cup carefully and took a bite. Like always, he closed his eyes as he chewed. The sweep of those dark eyelashes against his cheeks always made Mick’s heart beat a little faster. Len was just so damn beautiful it hurt. He took another bite and Mick tensed. The suspense was killing him, so of course the jerk was drawing it out as much as possible.

“Well?” he finally cracked.

Len opened his eyes and slowly licked his lips. That was an image Mick would be saving for later.

“It’s a little chocolatey.”

Mick stared at him. “It’s mint chocolate mousse. In a chocolate cup. With chocolate on top,” he grit out.

Len shrugged, “I like the mint. But it was too chocolatey.” He ate the last bite and licked the last smears of chocolate off his fingers with a satisfied little noise. If Mick wasn’t about ready to beat Len to death, he’d be helplessly turned on.

Mick grabbed a roll of parchment paper and the pastry bag of warm chocolate.

“Where’re you going?” Len asked.

“Out front. You wanna keep all your teeth, stay back here.”

Len’s laughter followed him out of the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

“Here.”

“Why do I always get the ugly, rejected ones?”

“To match your face. Now eat it.”

“...Well, the flavor matches the exterior at least.”

“Is that smartass talk for it sucks?”

“It is.”

“Translate this: Go fuck yourself.”

 

* * *

 

“What’s this?”

“King cake. For Mardi Gras.”

“Well, it’s certainly colorful.”

“Just eat the damn thing, Snart.”

“...Too bland. Also someone’s going to choke on the plastic baby and die.”

“If only.”

 

* * *

 

“And?”

“The crust is acceptable, but you were too heavy handed with the nuts.”

“...Too many nuts. In a pecan pie.”

“Exactly.”

“Get out of my kitchen.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Needs more vanilla.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“No, I’m being honest this time, Mick. Taste it yourself.”

“...Huh.”

“See?”

“So, does this mean you were lying all those other times?”

“Of course not. I’ve never said anything needed more vanilla before.”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t know if these are any good. I don’t think that new fryer cooks hot enough.”

“It cooks at the temperature it says it’s cooking at, you’re just used to that deathtrap you used to have.

“It worked fine.”

“It was a timebomb. As is this beignet. I can feel my arteries hardening already, although the diabetes may take me first. Tell my sister she gets everything.”

“So, more powdered sugar?”

 

* * *

 

Len hummed happily to himself as he pulled into his spot next to Amaya’s beat up Honda Civic. He knew Mick didn’t own a car, which, based on the first pages of the ledgers in the passenger’s seat, Len was pretty sure was due to financial reasons, not city dweller reasons. Len smiled. If the numbers Mick had been pulling the last few weeks kept up, that wouldn’t be a problem for much longer. Len had an even better idea though: a delivery van. If Mick had one he could do large orders, special deliveries, maybe even wedding cakes. Then a year or two down the line, catering, or a second location. He’d have to hire on more staff of course, but that shouldn’t be a problem if…

Len’s phone chimed, pulling him out of his daydreams. He shook his head. It was one thing to look over some figures for Mick; some people liked Sudoku or the Times crossword, Len liked numbers. But planning out an entire business strategy for a friend?

Len frowned. He and Mick were friends? He rolled the word over carefully in his mind. He didn’t really have friends. His sister was his sister, obviously, and he had colleagues or acquaintances, but Mick was certainly more than that.

“Friends” it was then. Unless there was a better word for “Person whose livelihood you helped to flourish before you even knew them and didn’t really like them anyway but now you do and you continue to lust after them while berating their baking abilities because if you started telling them how amazing they actually are you might never stop”. Maybe in German. The Germans had a word for everything.

Len’s phone chimed again.

**Follow up on my desk Tmw or ur ass is mine**

**Get more muffins 2**

Len sighed. It had been almost three months since his first review of Mama Rory’s had been published, and Sara had been on his ass for the last month at least to post a follow-up. It honestly shouldn’t have been a problem. Most of the places Len reviewed had a week or two of better business just from being mentioned by him, then either went back to the numbers they’d had before, or shut down entirely. The very few who’d actually taken his criticisms and learned from them generally did a little better after the initial rush died down, but he hadn’t anticipated what had happened with Mama Rory’s. Sure, that barbeque place he’d given his other good review to had done well, but Len knew most of those franchise and merchandise deals had already been in process, Len’s review just gave them a little kick.

But Mama Rory’s was just as busy now as it had been the day Len’s review came out. If anything, it was even busier. Mick complained about the line around the block getting longer every morning and being lucky they were selling as much as he did for all the free coffee he was handing out.     

Which lead to Len’s current problem. Sara wanted him to write a follow-up review of the hottest bakery in town. And Len wasn’t sure he could.

It wasn’t any concern about impartiality that bothered him; he could easily type out 750 words about how everything Mick touched turned to culinary gold and have it be nothing but pure, undeniable fact. The problem was Len knew he wouldn’t want to stop there. He’d want to talk about how hard Mick worked, how he used such outdated equipment but still managed to out-bake every other pastry chef in the city. How he’d laughed the first time Len had called him a pastry chef, because he had no idea how ridiculously, unimaginably, brilliant he was, and how he pretended to hate anyone under thirty who came into his shop, but would let the stressed-looking college kids stay at his tables for hours and even sneak them extra cookies when he didn’t think Len or Amaya was watching.  

And Len couldn’t say any of that, because if he did, Len would lose all of it. Mick would never speak to him again if he found out Len was Captain Culinary. He’d think Len had been lying to him this entire time just to get close to him for another review. He’d told Len things he certainly wouldn’t have told a critic, he’d even let Len have his own parking space and let Len wander into his kitchen whenever he wanted. He was Len’s _friend_. And he would hate Len if he knew who Len really was.   

Len sighed and gathered up the ledgers. He could do this. He could be a professional. It was all about compartmentalization. He would just go in, talk to Mick about some of the notations he’d made in the ledgers, then get Sara her muffins and go back to his office and write his completely unbiased, impartial review. Len took a deep breath and stepped out of his car.

“Mick?” he called out as he elbowed through the back door into the kitchen, “Are you intentionally paying too much for butter or do you owe a gambling debt to the dairy mafia?”

Len looked around the kitchen. Empty. He dropped the ledgers on the nearest clean surface with a pout. He’d worked on that line all morning. He wandered toward the front.

“Mi--” Len stopped in the doorway. He’d found Mick. And how.

Mick had apparently taken Len’s advice about doing more of the kitchen work out front. He had floured down the end of the counter and was kneading a large mass of bread dough. He rocked his entire body into the push-and-pull motion, large hands sinking into the dough before grasping and pulling it back, only to press forward again. He was in a long sleeved shirt today, but it was threadbare and he had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hiding none of the flex of his powerful muscles as he worked. There was a smear of flour just above his jaw. Len was struck with a wave of emotion even stronger than lust as he realized dizzily that he wanted nothing more in this world than to go over and gently brush the flour off.

“See something you like?”

Len turned his head just enough to see Amaya out of the corner of his eye. She was smirking at him.

At that moment, Mick picked up the dough and dropped it onto a tray, before nodding at the half dozen customers--male and female--who had crowded down the end of the counter to watch. He then raised his arms above his head in a full body stretch.

Len’s mouth went dry. After a long moment, Mick dropped his arms with a grunt. He grabbed the tray and turned toward the kitchen. The moment he saw Len, his eyes lit up and he smiled.

“Hey, buddy.”

Len turned around and walked out.

It wasn’t until he’d been staring at a blank word processor for almost three hours that he realized he’d forgotten Sara’s muffins.


	5. Chapter 5

_…and those are just the pies. While Chef Rory continues to stick to the traditional classics, many of his pastries and desserts far outshine any other to be had in this city, and to find the equal of a select few, such as his croissants and profiteroles, I suspect an international flight might be involved, although perhaps not even then._

_But I may be unfairly biased in this regard. In all fairness, I must admit that I have easily visited Mama Rory’s far more often than any other restaurant I have reviewed and find myself only more overwhelmed and entranced by the offerings there as time goes on. So too, must I admit that this fondness may have spilled over into my appreciation of other aspects of Mama Rory’s also. As the increasing number of customers can attest, the unprepossessing decor and limited beverage selection tends to grow on one after a while. Even the surly owner himself is not without his charms..._

 

* * *

 

Mick threw an arm over his eyes and leaned back in his chair with a smile. He could hear Amaya humming to herself as she emptied the cash register, some catchy little pop tune he’d caught bits and pieces of, but didn’t know the words to. What a goddamn _perfect_ day. He’d known something was up when he made his first pre-open round of coffee and the line out the front had already stretched all the way around the corner.

He’d called Amaya to get in early and the next seven hours were nothing but a blur of measuring, whisking, and cooling. At some point Amaya had swung into the kitchen and dropped off the lifestyle section of the _Picture News._ Mick had glanced at it just long enough to see the name “Captain Culinary” on the front page, with the words “Continued on page 4” at the bottom.

They’d sold out by noon.

Mick grinned and hummed along with Amaya. Damn tune was catchy. He brought a beer up to his lips with his free hand and took a long pull. Only one thing could make this day better.

“Anybody home?”

“Out here!” Mick boomed. _Now_ the day was perfect. He dropped his arm just in time to see Len walk into the front from the kitchen, small smile on his face and the ledgers under one arm. It had finally warmed up enough for him to lose those fancy coats, and the tight black sweater he wore hinted at a trim, lithe figure underneath. Damn. If Lenny could look that good still covered neck to ankle, Mick wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle it when the summer heat forced Len to show a little skin.

Mick smiled back at Len. Maybe he could convince Len to strip down under other, even hotter circumstances. He snickered.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Just a pun, s’all,” Mick replied. “It’s too awful even for you.”

Len rolled his eyes and set the books on the counter.

“Good day, I take it?” he asked Amaya.

“Mick here, or should I say “the Vulcan of the bread oven”, got another write up by Captain Culinary. Another good one!”

“Congratulations. I assume this has something to do with why the blinds are closed?”

“Shh, if they hear you they’ll want cake. So, so much cake,” sighed Mick happily. Then a thought occurred to him and he frowned, “No one saw you come in did they? I had to chase two out already. They can’t run so fast in their skinny jeans.”

He eyed Len. Come to think of it, those jeans Len wore were pretty damn tight themselves. Mick leaned back further trying to get a better view. He flailed as his chair wobbled wildly on two legs, then finally settled firmly back down onto four. Len and Amaya were both laughing at him, but he could forgive them. He took another drink; it was a perfect day.

Len nodded toward the beer bottles littering Mick’s table. “I take it the party started without me?”

“Better party now that you’re here, Lenny,” Mick said. Well “slurred” might have been a better word, but it had been a long time since he’d had one too many just because he was in a _good_ mood.

The cash register dinged as Amaya closed it.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” she said. She walked over to Mick and handed him the zippered pouch containing the bills and change from the days take. The zipper was straining to stay closed. “Here, don’t spend it all in one place.”

Mick fumbled a few bills out of the pouch without counting and pressed them into her palm.

“You have absolutely no business sense, you know that right?” Came Len’s voice from behind them.

“You want some?” Mick asked, holding out the pouch. “Tell me how to spend it. You were so smart about the new mixer and fryer and ramekins. So smart. Ain’t he smart, Amaya?”

“Yes, yes, Snart’s smart,” she said. Mick snorted and Amaya leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “But don’t listen to everything he says.”

Mick drained the last of his beer as she walked away. He knew Len was lying about his crusts not being buttery enough if that’s what she was worried about. He heard her say to Len, “He’s all yours,” as he reached for the rest of the six-pack on the table and popped the tops off the last two beers. He took his time with them, so Amaya had plenty of time to leave before he got them open. If she was gone, it was just him and Len. Mick smiled to himself as he used brute strength to separate the metal caps from the cool, slick glass. Maybe, if he played his cards right, he and Lenny could find the perfect way to end the perfect day.

Mick turned to Len, one hand with a beer in it outstretched, but his invitation to come join him died on his lips when he saw the look on Len’s face. He looked like a kid who’d just found out Santa wasn’t real and he owed the Tooth Fairy interest.

“You okay?” Mick asked.

Len straightened. “Fine,” he said stiffly. “I just remembered an appointment. I only came by to drop these off anyway.” He dropped his eyes to the floor and waved a hand at the ledgers on the counter. He started to walk back toward the kitchen, then paused. Without turning around he said quietly, “Mick, I want you to know that you’ve earned every bit of your success.”

And with that, he was gone.

Mick lowered both beers back onto the table. That was… That was not how he was hoping this afternoon would go. Was it something he said? Or did? Fuck, he shouldn’t have been so obvious. He must’ve made Len uncomfortable.

Mick scrubbed his face with both hands before sighing and slowly rising. He might as well go find the mop then. He groaned as his tired and aching muscles protested the movement. Maybe he’d be able to get a full night’s sleep tonight at least. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten that. Of course if _Len_ had wanted to keep him from sleep… But no, it was pretty clear that Len wasn’t interested in that, and Mick wasn’t the kind to mope about things he couldn’t have. Much.

He still wished Len hadn’t run off so quick though. Mick hadn’t even gotten a chance to tell him that his croissants were called the best in the US and maybe the world. Suck it France.

 

* * *

 

Len stopped with his hand just inches from the doorknob. It had taken him almost a week to bring himself back here and it was guilt that had done it. He had thought he’d had a chance with Mick and he’d been wrong. Clearly. It happened every day and he was a grown man, he wasn’t going to sulk about it. Just because he hadn’t gotten that vibe from Mick and Amaya at all, that was his fault for not paying enough attention. People didn’t just go around kissing their bosses after all. He should have picked up on the signs before he’d gotten his hopes up.

But Mick was his friend dammit, and Len liked Amaya. He was going to be happy for them, and supportive, and do everything he could to keep his emotions to himself and never let Mick know how Len felt about him. He wasn’t going lose his only friend over something as trivial as _feelings_.

It wasn’t like anything could ever happen between them anyway. Not with the whole “Captain Cold” thing. He liked his personal objectivity and his face exactly as they were, thank you.

Len took a deep breath to steel himself and opened the door.

The sight that met him was a surprise. Len had gotten up early to come to the bakery before it opened. He knew Mick would already be there, elbows deep in the first round of the day’s baking, but Len had figured it would be quieter then, and he could apologize to Mick for running out on him without anyone else around.

_Without Amaya around_ , whispered a petty part of him, but Len tried to ignore it. He figured he could spend an hour or two helping out, maybe even running coffee out to those in line, although his stomach roiled at the idea of having to interact with the general public. But it was the least he could do, after dropping off Mick’s paperwork only half finished and then bolting. Poor Mick, Len didn’t think his handwriting was that bad, but he knew Sara, among others, disagreed.

But the expected sight of freshly baked cookies and trays of scones and rolls ready to go in the oven was not what greeted Len. The kitchen was cold, No heat from the oven or the stovetop filling the air with the smell of baking pastries or bubbling fillings. It was quiet too, no whir of the mixers or even the quiet hum of Mick unconsciously singing to himself. There was a covered bowl that Len knew contained rising bread dough on the counter, but that was it. No other doughs, no finished desserts, no Mick.

“Mick?” Len asked cautiously as he stepped in. Had something happened to Mick? Had there been a break in, or Mick had gotten hurt with no one around to help or--

“Mick!” Len yelled louder.

“Mmph?”   

The noise came from the walk in pantry and Len spun into it, fearing the worst, only to see Mick sitting apparently uninjured in the far corner. Len let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, then smiled as he took full stock of the situation. Mick was sitting on a pile of flour sacks in the corner, passed out with his head tipped back against the wall, hands slowly clenching and unclenching in his sleep like a cat. His apron hung loosely around his neck, untied, looking like a comically small blanket draped over his massive frame.

_A giant and his blankie_ , thought Len.

His shouts must not have really roused Mick, because his lips were open and he was snoring softly, a small puddle of drool forming in the corner of his mouth.

Let knelt down next to Mick, and let himself take a long look. _Just for a minute_. Mick was beautiful like this, the peace and quiet so unlike the constant energy and overwhelming presence Len was accustomed to. He smiled as he watched Mick’s hands move. Even in sleep, Mick couldn’t be perfectly still, the same way even when he wasn’t working, he always had to be fiddling with one of his appliances or rolling a bottle around.

His eyelashes swept down over his cheeks, and Len hadn’t noticed until now how absurdly long they were. Len reached out, then stopped himself, his hand just above Mick’s face. Dammit, this was exactly what he’d told himself he _wouldn’t_ do.

He redirected his hand to Mick’s shoulder and gave him a light shake. When this only made him snore louder, Len shook him again, harder.

“Wakey wakey.”

“Huzzuh?” Mick mumbled. He blinked, eyes soft and unfocused before zeroing in on Len. “Lenny?”

Oh fuck, Len was doomed. And when had they gotten so close? Len stood up quickly and took a few steps back.

“I came in this morning to apologize, and found you _sacked_ out back here.” Len dusted some non-existent flour off his pants while Mick got his bearings. He paused, then stuck a hand out to help Mick up. If he was damned anyway, he might as well enjoy it.

Mick grasped Len’s outstretched arm by the wrist, and together they pulled him up. Len thrilled at the feel of Mick’s strangely smooth, scarred skin under his palm, and hoped Mick didn’t notice the shiver that ran through him when Mick wrapped his fingers around Len’s wrist, or how close they were now standing. Mick still seemed a little out of it though, so he probably didn’t. Len understood, he wasn’t at his best first thing in the morning, either.

“Apologize? For wha--oh fuck!” Mick pushed past Len into the kitchen. He looked around at the bare counters and then at the clock on the wall that read 6:22 am.

“Oh fuck, fuck, _fuck_!”

Len stepped quickly to the side to avoid being bowled over as Mick ran back into the pantry and threw a 50 lb sack of sugar and another of flour over his shoulder like they were nothing.

“Oh fuck. Okay, cookies? Cookies are fast. Fuck it, today’s cookie day. Coffee, oh fuck…” Mick threw the bags down on the counter with a thud and started to run his hands over his head as he thought.

“Mick, Mick!” Len shouted. He stepped toward Mick at the same time Mick turned, and Len caught Mick’s upraised elbow right in the face. He went down like a rock as pain exploded across his face, then added insult to injury by banging his head on the leg of the counter.

“Ow?” said Len from the floor, dazed.

Mick was immediately by Len’s side. “Oh fuck, Lenny, are you alright?  Oh Jesus, you’re bleeding. Fuck. Hold still.” Len watched as Mick whipped the apron off over his head, before holding it under the sink and soaking it in cold water. Len touched his fingertips to his nose, it wasn’t broken but when he ran his fingers across his upper lip they came away red. He gingerly touched the back of his head. There would be a pretty bad goose egg there, but nothing serious. Len knew what serious felt like.

Mick was immediately by his side again, reaching out toward Len’s face with the wet apron. Len flinched and instinctively slapped his hands away.

“Oh fuck, Lenny. I’m so sorry. Fuck.” Mick dropped the apron and scooted back. Len pinched his nose to halt the flow of blood, then picked the apron off the floor and held it to his face. He knew how clean Mick kept his floors, it was fine.

“Mick?” said Len, when the blood had finally slowed to a trickle.

“Yeah, Lenny? Fuck, I’m sorry. What can I do?”

“Say ‘fuck’ one more time.” Len looked over at Mick just in time to see his face go from anguish, to shock, to absolute disbelief. Len couldn’t help it. He started laughing. The laughter made his nose start to bleed again, and perversely, that just made him laugh even harder. He laughed until his ribs hurt, and when he finally started to subside into giggles, he looked back at Mick and that just set him off again.

“How hard did you hit your head?”

Len laughed until he started to choke. “Ow, fucking, ow,” he gasped. He looked down, his nose finally seemed to have stopped bleeding, but his navy pullover and Mick’s apron were both covered in blood.

“I hope you have another apron. This one isn’t sanitary. Plus it might intimidate the customers.”

“Oh fuck, the customers,” Mick said. Len couldn’t help his small giggle. It had been an emotional few days for him. Mick glared at him, then looked shamefaced for doing so. He sighed, “I’m supposed to open in half an hour and all I have is one batch of ciabatta dough made up.”

Len shrugged. “So don’t open.”

“I can’t just not open. I’ve been open every day for the last two years.”

“Sure you can. You’re the hippest eatery in all of Central City right now. You being closed is only going to make the foodies love you more. Makes you exclusive.”

Mick still looked uncertain, so Len pressed on. “Why were you passed out in the panty anyway?”

Mick sat back to lean against the counter mirroring Len. He stretched his legs out, and their feet tangled together. Len gave him a light kick when no answer seemed to be forthcoming.   

“Just tired is all.” Mick said, closing his eyes as he spoke. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to finally be making some money with this place, but with all the baking and then the cleaning, organizing, ordering… I was up late working on the books too. You’re right, I need to get that computer program, your handwriting is shit.”

“No, it’s not,” Len said reflexively, then frowned. “Wait, I knew you did the orders and inventory, but I assumed Amaya did the cleaning at least, or you called someone else in?”

“No, Amaya’s in grad school, some kinda nocturnal animal behavioral thing, I don’t understand it. So she can’t work evenings. And until recently, I couldn’t afford anyone else to do it. I guess I just got used to it.”

“And you do this seven days a week?”

“Mm hm…”

Mick drifted off even as he spoke. Len stared at him incredulously. It wasn’t possible. The kind of hours Mick must be pulling, and every single day? For years? Len stood up cautiously, careful not to kick Mick or give himself another head injury in the process, but aside from a slight throb his head felt fine. He went over to the sink and washed the remaining blood off his face and hands, before putting the ciabatta dough in the refrigerator. He had no idea if that would ruin it, but he had other things to worry about. He walked through the bakery and unlocked the front door.

The crowd outside rustled as the door opened, and Len even heard a cheer or two from the back. Len looked at the person at the front of the line. The kid had a wool beanie on, a pair of oversized and overpriced headphones around his neck, and clearly nothing better to do than wait three hours to buy baked goods.

“We’re closed. Come back tomorrow.” Len closed the door on the kid’s protests and re-locked it. Almost immediately, knocking started on the door, but he ignored it.

Once back in the kitchen, he stepped over Mick to get to the wall phone and looked at the list of numbers pinned beside it. Sure enough, right there between “dairy asshole” and “sugar guy” was Amaya’s name and number. Her name was written in a much clearer, and more feminine hand than all the others, for when Len was grateful, because if Mick thought he could give Len shit about his handwriting? Len smiled as the phone on the other end rang.

“Hello, Mick?”

Len swallowed; of course Amaya would have the number programmed into her cell.

“No, it’s Len. Leonard Snart?”

There was a long silence and Len tried not to feel nervous.

“I know who you are, Len. You’re calling from the bakery? This early? Is Mick okay?”

“He’s fine,” said Len, relieved to be back to questions he could answer. “Just overworked. We decided not to open Mama Rory’s today, so he could get some rest. I wanted to let you know before you drove in.”

The silence was back. “Really? You decided that together?”

“Well,” Len looked down at the sleeping Mick at his feet. The little hand movements were back. Cute. “ _I_ decided, and I’m sure Mick will agree with my decision when he wakes up.”   

Amaya laughed, “Sure he will. Thanks for letting me know, Len. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Wait!” said Len before she could hang up. He glanced down, but Mick hadn’t even flinched. “Did you want to come… I mean, he’s your… I don’t even know where he lives!”

Amaya laughed at him again. “Nope. He’s your problem now, have fun with that.”

Len could almost swear there was a leer in her voice, but before he could say anything else, she hung up on him. He put the phone back in its cradle, then took out his phone and added her number to his contacts. Just in case.

He looked down at Mick. Okay, get Mick home and make sure he got to bed, just like any friend would do. Right. How hard could it be?

Len knelt down and shook Mick’s shoulder again. “C’mon Mick, up at and at ‘em.” He purposefully looked away this time as Mick woke up. He knew his limits.

“Mmmgh fuck… gotta bake…” Still half asleep, Mick struggled to get up. Len put both his hands on his shoulders to hold him down and was frankly shocked when instead of just ignoring Len or swatting him aside like he was definitely strong enough to do, Mick just relaxed into Len’s grip instead.

“Hey, hey, we’ve been through this.” Len said. He rubbed small, soothing circles with his thumbs at the point where the collar of Mick’s henley met his skin. “No baking today. You’re taking a vacation. And before you say anything else, I’ve already called Amaya and informed the crowd out front, so you don’t really have a choice. He cocked his head, thinking. “Unless you want to try to run this thing with no goods, no cashier, and no customers?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Mick grumbled.

Len pulled his hands back reluctantly and stood up. “I knew you’d see it my way.”

He turned, and started straightening the ledgers on the counter so he’d have a reason not to look at Mick as he said the next part. “I tell you what, just because I’m such a good friend, I’ll give you a ride home as well. Can’t have you passing out on the subway, can we?”

“Okay.”

Len’s heart leapt when Mick didn’t say anything to correct his “friend” assumption. He viciously fought to keep down his grin.

“But it’s not much of a drive. I live upstairs.”

“Upstairs?”

“Yeah, the place came with a one bedroom apartment upstairs. Mick groaned as he got to his feet, then scratched his chin sleepily. “At least, it’s a one bedroom now. It was a studio, but I threw up a couple walls. You can come see if you want.”

Mick grabbed a key ring off the hook by the back door that Len had been wondering about, then stepped outside. Len followed him, and when they were both outside, Mick locked the bakery behind him, before going a few steps over to a metal door with peeling blue paint and unlocking two sets of locks. When the door opened, Len peered around Mick to see a long flight of stairs leading up into the darkness. Mick flipped a light switch just inside the door and started to lead his way up.

“It’s not much…”

Len didn’t care how much it was, he was overwhelmed with curiosity. Based on Mama Rory’s decor, he had just assumed that Mick lived in an old house somewhere on the edge of Central, somewhere clean but full of the same furniture that had been there forever, maybe even the same house he grew up in.

He’d assumed Mick owned the bakery outright, maybe as an inheritance, since there wasn’t any mention of rent in the ledgers, but that he lived here as well? Len was so distracted, he almost didn’t notice that following Mick up the stairs put him right at eye level with Mick’s ass. Almost.

Len took a quick moment to capture the image in his mind for later, then they reached the top of the stairs. Mick’s apartment… Mick’s apartment was an absolute wreck. The space itself was relatively large, the same size as the entire storefront and kitchen below it, but that was the most positive thing that could be said about it. To the right of the stairs was the saddest kitchen Len had ever seen. It made the worn out appliances in the bakery look positively brand new.

Its cabinets were of at least three different designs, and in the middle was one of those fold out card tables flanked by two mismatched chairs that Len suspected constituted the formal dining area. To the left was the living room, that could generously be called open plan, but in reality was just a rug thrown down on the bare wood floors with a sagging sofa facing an old pre-flatscreen TV. The room itself was a mess. A couple of cartons were placed where a coffee table should be in front of the sofa. They were covered in beer bottles and take out containers with a pile of pizza boxes on the floor next to them. The sofa itself looked like Mick had just dumped his clean laundry on it when it was done. Len wrinkled his nose. At least he _hoped_ it was clean laundry.

Straight ahead was a long hallway flanked by walls with the apartment’s only fresh paint, and Len could see two open doors down the end.

“You _live_ here?” Len couldn’t keep the horror from his voice.

“Yeah well, we can’t all have whatever fancypants townhouse or penthouse or whatever-house you live in,” Mick said, without any real heat. “I’ve seen your nice car, don’t deny it.”

“I won’t.” Len had an condo actually, but it was a very nice condo. A thought occurred to him. “Wait, are these the walls you built? They look professional.”

Mick shrugged. “Did some time on construction teams before. It’s not that hard once you know what you’re do-” He interrupted himself with a jaw-cracking yawn that nearly set Len off yawning himself.

“Sorry, I don’t think I’m much up for entertainin’,” With that, Mick whipped off his shirt and started walking down the hall.

Len was frozen in place. Mick shirtless was everything he’d hoped it would be and more. He’d only gotten a quick impression of his chest, and that impression was “Muscles”, but he stared at Mick’s broad back as he walked away. The man was enough to make Michelangelo weep. The strongly defined muscles flexed as he walked and the scars on his arms curled over and continued down his back all the way past his waistband. Len was stuck on that thought so long he missed most of what Mick said next.

“...if you want before you go. It locks automatically. Thanks.”

Mick disappeared through one of the open doors down the hallway into what Len assumed was the bedroom. Len took an involuntary step forward and then scowled at himself. He should go.

As he turned, his eyes caught on the keys that Mick had tossed on the card table. Len’s mind flashed to the ledgers downstairs. He should really go grab those and bring them up here for Mick to work on when he woke up.

Or Len could take a look at them himself? It shouldn’t take him to long to go over them, and he’d wanted a chance to see if he could find the budget for a second oven for Mick anyway…

Len swiped the keys and headed down the stairs.  


	6. Chapter 6

Mick woke slowly and blinked at the late afternoon sun shining in through his window. That couldn’t be right, he was never home in the… Oh, yeah.

He groaned as he rolled over onto his back, sheets tangling around his legs. God, he’d needed that nap. He was still groggy, still too behind on sleep to be fully caught up, but he felt a hundred times better than he had that morning. His sleep cycle was going to be fucked though.

Mick winced. His sleep cycle wasn’t the only thing that was fucked. Yeah, being closed a day probably wouldn’t ruin his business, but he’d have an extra day’s worth of raw materials that he’d have to subtract from his next orders, and wasn’t that new dairy guy supposed to come by to talk prices?

Fuck. Maybe Len had seen the note and called him to reschedule like he’d called Amaya.

Mmm, Len. Mick slid a sleep-warm hand down his stomach and under the waist of his boxers. He’d apparently been conscious enough to kick off his boots and strip down before collapsing into bed; convenient. It would have been more convenient if he’d been conscious enough to invite Lenny to join him for his nap instead of just to see the apartment. Mick wrapped his fingers around his cock and pulled gently.

Yeah, now that would be something to wake up to, Len is his bed, all fuzzy with sleep. Mick would bet he wasn’t any more coherent after a nap than he was first thing in the morning, before his coffee. Mick sped his hand up.

That was fine, there were plenty of things he and Len could do in a bed that didn’t involve talking. Mick moaned at the thought. Len would probably do that cute little nose scrunch thing he did when the sun got in his face too. Damn, that was adorable.

Mick stilled his hand. What the fuck? It was one thing to get off thinking about how hot Len would be in his bed, but to thinking he was _adorable_? Mick’s cock twitched. No, dammit. He pulled his hand out of his boxers. Those weren’t the kind of thoughts you had about someone you just wanted to sleep with, those were... Those were something else.

Mick rolled up to sit on the edge of his bed, trying to ignore his hard on. It had just been way too long, is all. He had enough shit to deal with without trying to make those feeling more than they were. Maybe in a week or two, when he was more settled into the new routine, he’d close early again, take an evening off to find some company.

He nodded, plan settled. But first he had to take a shower, then see what he could salvage of the rest of the day. He crossed the narrow hallway into the bathroom. Better make it a cold shower.

Refreshed from his shower, Mick wrapped a towel around his waist and wandered out into the main area of his apartment in search of food. There should still be some of that lo mein still left in the fridge unless he’d--

Len was sitting at his kitchen table.

“Fuck!” Mick stepped back in surprise. He didn’t jump, but it was a close thing. “Jesus Lenny, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,” Len coughed. Christ, he look almost as startled as Mick. “I stayed to fix up the books and lost track of time. I didn’t mean to stay this long. I can go.”

“Naw, it’s fine,” said Mick. His heart was still going about a hundred miles an hour, but he tried to play it off. “You’d have to explain it to me later, anyway.” Mick walked over to the fridge to see about leftovers, but was stopped by the sight of something on his counter. “What’s this?”

“Ah.”

Mick looked over at Len when no further explanation seemed to be coming.

“Ah?”

Len looked away. “I thought I could make up that bread dough you had downstairs--waste not, want not--I found a recipe online but I didn’t know exactly what kind it was. It’s harder to make than you’d think.”

Mick laughed and Len glanced over at him, quicksilver smile on his face, then looked away again.

“Right. So, it came out like a flatbread. It’s edible but--look, can you go put some clothes on or something?”

And like that, the happiness that had been building up in Mick drained away. Oh right. Yeah, he could do that. He’d find something with long sleeves too. No reason to put Len off more than he already had. Mick knew how awful his burn scars were, he wasn’t going to subject Len to them, especially after the guy had taken the day off himself to unfuck Mick’s paperwork. He’d even tried to salvage Mick’s dough, although how he got flatbread out of ciabatta dough Mick wasn’t going to ask. He wandered over to the sofa to grab whatever sweats and long sleeve shirt he could find in the pile.

“What happened to my pile?”

Len was studying a stain on the table very intently.

“Len, what happened to my pile of clothes?”

“My shirt was covered in blood. Obviously I wasn’t going to wear that all day, so I figured it would be alright if I borrowed something--I’ll wash it before I return it, don’t worry--but it was all such a mess that I may have, folded them?

Mick looked at where his clothes were sitting on his coffee-table crates, neatly folded into precise stacks of shirts, pants, and underwear, with his socks folded together each into separate pairs. The boxes and bottles that had been on and around the crates were long gone too. Okay, a little creepy, but honestly? A man could get used to this.

Mick’s brain finally caught up with Len’s explanation and he jerked his head up. Sure enough, the shirt Len was wearing was one of Micks henleys. It was buttoned all the way up, but hung so loose on Len’s thin frame, that the collar hung low and wide on his neck, revealing delicate collarbones and freckled skin halfway to the shoulder. Len was swimming in it, especially compared to the form-fitted tops he usually wore. The material hung baggy around his waist, but since they were about the same height, the length on the sleeves was just right, revealing those gorgeous, cunning hands as they flicked over the pages in front of Len.

Mick growled and grabbed the first pair of pants and shirt he saw to keep himself from grabbing something else. He stomped into the bedroom to change and slammed the door shut. Christ. There was only so much he could be expected to endure. He sighed, and slipped the towel off. He’d forgotten to grab underwear, but there was no way in hell he could go back out there now. The pants he’d grabbed were a pair of baggy sweats that should hide most sins, but unfortunately the shirt he’d grabbed was only short sleeved. He worried the hem of the shirt between his fingers for a moment, considering. Fuck it. Len had already seen his scars, and their constant reminder would do a better job of keeping Mick in check than his own, admittedly weak, self control.

Mick huffed as he caught his eye in the mirror he had propped up against his bedroom wall. He pointed at himself.

“Don’t fuck this up.”

He took a deep breath, then walked out of the bedroom. He could do this.

“So what other life changes did you make while I was asleep?”

Mick walked as calmly as he could into the kitchen. He couldn’t help but notice the quick once over Len gave him, followed by a look of relief. Mick grabbed a bread knife from the block and tried to cut into the bread. That… didn’t work. He put the knife down and tore a piece off, like that had been the idea all along. He took a bite. It was… well it was definitely bread. Technically. Burned on the bottom, like rubber on the top, and still raw in the middle, but bread. How was that even possible, he turned to find the trash can to spit it out, but caught Len’s eye. Oh Christ, he looked so damn hopeful. Mick chewed for another minute and then swallowed.

“S’not bad,” he said. Len’s eyes lit up, and against his better judgement, Mick took another bite. At least if it killed him, Len knew where all the important phone numbers and paperwork were. Speaking of…

“So, life changes?”

“Oh!” said Len, attention immediately back on the books in front of him. “I found a couple of places where you can save some money. Not much, but a few dollars every week are going to add up over time. We should talk about savings plans too. I also went ahead and ordered that software. I had it sent to the bakery, because you’ll be there when they deliver it anyway.”

“Thanks. Let me know what I owe you.”

Len waved a hand, “Make more of those raspberry souffles, they’re alright. Here, let me show you what I did.”

Mick grabbed the chair from the other side of the table and plopped it down next to Len. Len spent the next hour or two talking Mick through the changes he’d made to Mick’s ordering system--“Yes, before you ask, I rescheduled with the new dairy guy.”--and explaining the new twice-a-week system he’d set up for all the deliveries instead of having a couple of different ones delivered each day. Unlike every other time someone had tried to teach Mick something to do with numbers and math however, Len didn’t make Mick feel stupid at all. He had a way of explaining things that made sense, and even when Mick didn’t get an idea right away, he’d find another way to lay it out, and didn’t get frustrated or annoyed if it took a couple of tries.

By the time they’d finished, the sky outside the apartment windows was darkening.

Len glanced at the time on his phone. “I guess I should be going…”

“Wanna stay for dinner?” Mick asked, emboldened by his pride in everything he’d learned. At the uncertainty on Len’s face he backtracked, “You don’t have to, if you have somewhere to be. I just figured you’d earned a free meal.”

“No,” said Len slowly, “No, I’d like that.”

“Good,” Mick huffed. “I’m still putting you to work though. You can boil water right?”

Mick tried to hide his doubts at Len’s exasperated eyeroll. After the bread, that had been a serious question. He grabbed his keys from where Len had left them hanging from a nail that stuck out of the stair rail. That was actually a pretty great place for them. “Pots are over the stove, if I’m not back in ten put the rest of the box of spaghetti in. Top cabinet by the wall.”  

Downstairs,  Mick unlocked the bakery and went into the pantry. Most of what he needed was there. Some of the ingredients he had on hand for the pre-wrapped sandwiches that were popular in the afternoon, the rest were for the shepherd’s pie he’d been thinking of trying. On a whim he grabbed the garlic as well, before getting some butter and lamb out of the refrigerator. He did a quick walkthrough just to make sure everything was closed up for the night, then headed back upstairs.  

When he got there, Len was just dumping the spaghetti into the boiling water. He should have told Len to add a pinch of salt first, but too late now. He unloaded his armfuls of food onto the counter, then started to hunt for a saucepan.

“Can I help?”

“Sure, just a sec,” said Mick, pulling out the pan and putting it over a burner on low. He poured just a splash of olive oil into the pan, being careful not to spill any over the side and onto the flame, as much as he would have liked to. He pulled out a wooden spoon and handed it to Len. “Once that heats up, add about half the lamb, then keep mixing it around so it cooks evenly.”

Len nodded, and went to stand by the stove, eyes intent on the pan. Mick washed the vegetables and started dicing the pepper and onions. They were ready to go into the pan just after Len tentatively added the lamb.

“Good. Now keep stirring until the meat looks like something you’d want to eat.” Len nodded, and Mick cut up a couple heirloom tomatoes, before painstakingly slicing the bread Len had made in half lengthwise and placing both pieces on a large baking sheet. He coated the uncooked sides in a mix of butter and chopped garlic and carefully nudged Len out of the way so he could pop the whole thing in the broiler under the stove.

“Mick?”

Mick stood up and inspected the pan. The lamb looked just about perfect, so he turned the heat down to just the lowest simmer, before carefully adding the tomatoes and some basil.

“Be better if I had some oregano, but I don’t bake with it much.” He told Len. Len looked a little dazed, so Mick took the wooden spoon from him and kept stirring. “Grab the colander out and put it in the sink. Get some plates down, too.”

Len did, and just in time. Mick poured the spaghetti into the colander, then gave it a few quick shakes before dumping the pasta back into the pot. He turned off both burners on the stove and grabbed an oven mitt. He pulled the bread out of the broiler, and the smell of hot, toasted garlic bread mixed with the delicious smell of cooking onions and peppers already filling the kitchen. Putting the oven mitt aside, he grabbed one of the pieces of bread off the pan and dropped it on the cutting board, sucking his fingers into his mouth at the slight burn. He sliced the bread into long strips and arranged them on the plates Len mutely handed him.

Finally, Mick spooned the spaghetti onto the plates and topped them off with a healthy serving of the meat sauce. There. He set everything on the card table. That didn’t look half bad. Even Len’s bread looked like it would probably be edible, but that was true if you added enough butter and  garlic to just about anything.

Mick turned, ready to be the one to critique _Len’s_ baking for once, but Len was just standing there gaping at him.

“Um,” Mick scratched the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. The shabbiness of his apartment suddenly flooded back to him, and surely someone as well-off and well-dressed as Len wasn’t going to be impressed by something as easy as spaghetti and meat sauce. “I don’t know what goes with pasta. Wine? I don’t have that, but I have some beers in the fridge?”

“A beer would be great, thank you.”

“Great, beers all around. Go sit.” Mick grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge, as well as knives and forks and some paper towels to use as napkins. He hoped the moments covered his nervousness. Len sat in his original seat, and Mick set everything on the table before dragging his chair back to the opposite side so they’d both have room to eat.

Mick sat down and took a few bites. Not bad. The veggies had been dropped off before he’d passed out this morning, so they were still crisp and fresh off the vine, and the onions and peppers hadn’t had too much time to overwhelm the natural sweetness of the tomatoes or the rich flavor of the meat. He glanced up sheepishly at Len. He was used to Len’s criticisms of his baking, and brushed them off completely, because he _knew_ how good he was at that. But this was different. Len had his eyes closed as he chewed slowly, but he always did that, it didn’t mean anything.

“How is it?”

Len slowly opened his eyes and looked right at Mick. Mick’s heart leapt in his chest at the look in those cool, beautiful eyes, and he ruthless squashed down those feelings he was determined not to think about.  

“It’s good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Mick ducked his head and went back to eating. Damn. A “good” from Lenny was worth more than any line around the block or fancy reviewer’s praise any day.

“Of course, the garlic bread is the best part.”

Mick couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. Len grinned back, and Mick felt something warm settle between them.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Do you wanna know how I got these scars?”

Len laughed, “As much as I appreciate the Dark Knight reference, no. I was just wondering where you trained?”

“You mean, like at the gym?”

“No, no,” Len grinned. “I mean _trained_. What culinary school did you go to? From your croissants I was guessing C.I. or L’Academie, but now with this pasta sauce I don’t know.”

“Oh,” Mick twirled his spaghetti slowly on his plate. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t…?”

“I didn’t go. To cooking school,” Mick clarified. “I mean, not unless you count working in the kitchen in Iron Heights.”

And oh, fuck. He really shouldn’t have said that. He could kiss Len ever coming around again goodbye. Certainly not at times when he’d be alone with Mick. He’d probably try to warn Amaya off too, but at least she already knew. Mick braced himself for the I’m-totally-not-judging-you-because-you-paid-your-debt-to-society-but-I-have-somewhere-else-important-to-be face that most people made when learning Mick was an ex-con, followed by a hasty retreat. He looked up at Len.

Len didn’t have that look on his face. He looked more like… Well, he looked more like he’d been hit with a frying pan, honestly.

“You’re _self trained_?”

“Uh yeah, I guess,” Mick said, confused. This was not the reaction he’d been expecting.

“You’re self trained! Of course. Of course, you are.” Len looked to the ceiling like he was telling all this to God, not Mick. “Of course. This explains so much. You have no idea. No idea at all.”

He looked back down at Mick and smirked. “No wonder your ordering system was such a mess.”

His eyes lit up, “And why you were calling the beignets, ‘big-nets’!”

“Hey!” said Mick. He tried to sound affronted, but it was hard in the face of Len’s obvious glee. “That’s what my grammy called them. You can blame her, she’s the one who taught me. And she’d kick your ass if she heard you making fun of her pronunciation.”

Len smiled around a sip of his beer. “She sounds amazing. Tell me about her.”

Mick sobered, he could tell Len the short, sanitary version, but Len hadn’t even batted an eye about the prison thing, or Mick’s scars. But no one who heard the full story ever ended up sticking around for long, and he wanted Len around as long as possible. Still, Len was so smart, if he stayed around Mick long enough he’d figure it out anyway. Maybe it was best to just tell him now, when it would hurt less to lose him.

Mick’s heart clenched at the thought. He didn’t think it would ever hurt less to lose Lenny, not now, not even as friends or whatever they were, but Lenny deserved the truth. All of it.

Mick finished the last of his beer and grabbed another before sitting back down. That didn’t mean he’d wouldn’t need all the liquid courage he could get.

“Mick?” Len seemed to have sensed the change in Mick’s mood. “You don’t have to. I understand that family can be--”

“My parents died in a fire when I was thirteen,” Mick interrupted. He looked down at his beer. He might be able to say this, but he didn’t think he could look at Len while he did it. “They died in a fire _I_ started. I burned our house down. I had-- _have_ \--a thing for fire. It’s mostly under control now, but back then….”

He shrugged. “So I went to juvie for a while. Got out when I was seventeen. Too young to legally be on my own, but no one in my family would take me back. Except Grammy. That’s my mother’s mother. She thought the baking would keep me out of trouble. ‘Idle hands’ and all.”

Mick took another long drink, finishing the bottle. “But it didn’t. Fell in with a bad crowd, was in and out of prison most my life. She always took me in when I needed a place to stay though, and taught me everything she knew.”

Mick hesitated, he’d never told anyone else this last part. “One night, I was part of a crew, hitting this warehouse. I was supposed to burn it down to cover our tracks, but I got distracted. Burned myself up instead. Got sent to hospital, then prison, then prison hospital. I was lucky not to get life on a three strikes law, but the judge took pity on me. Well, he could barely stand to look at me anyway. Four years in I get a letter from some aunt. Turns out, Grammy was crossing the street to buy a pack of smokes, got hit by a car.”

He laughed wetly, “Always said those damn things would kill her.”

He sat there for a long moment in silence, hands picking at the label on his beer, “She’d been there for me all my life and in the end…”

“I got paroled a couple months later. She left me everything. Wasn’t much, but it was enough to either get surgery to fix this,” he ran his right hand down his left arm. “Or open my own place. I figured, there wasn’t enough surgery in the world to make me so pretty a boss would ignore the multiple felonies. Plus, I’ve never been real good at taking orders from someone else anyway.”

Mick twirled the last of his pasta around his fork without taking a bite. He never talked this much, but now that he’d started he couldn”t seem to stop. “She said she was too old to do it herself, but she’d always kinda hoped my mama would open her own place someday. But that didn’t happen ‘cause of me. So I named the place after my mama, and make all of my grammy’s recipes.”

“And that’s my story,” he finished softly.

There. Mick had said it. All of it. He felt lighter, strangely. Like even if Len didn’t like what he’d heard, it would be okay. Somehow, just the act of saying the words was freeing. An absolution almost. Like by telling someone about his grammy and his mama, they lived on, just a little bit. It didn’t make being alone much easier to bear though.

Mick picked up his plate and silverware, and took them to the sink to rinse. The noise of the sink filling with running water was the only sound in the apartment.

“She sounds like an amazing woman. They both do.”

Mick jumped. He hadn’t even heard Len move, but here he was, standing next to Mick, holding his plate out.

“She was.” Mick said, taking the plate and dunking it into the soap suds. Then he gathered up the rest of the pots and pans, and started scrubbing. Len picked up a dish towel and dried the clean plates as Mick handed them to him.

“I never knew my mother,” Len said. Mick looked over at him out of the corner of his eye, but Len was staring at the knife he was drying. “She left not long after I was born. My father was an asshole. Only good thing he ever did was knock up my sister’s mom. I don’t know where I’d be without Lisa.”

He put the knife carefully aside and started drying the colander. “Actually, I do. I’d have turned out like him. A hateful, drunken, _little_ man. He was a crook, too. Thought he was amazing at it, one of the big shots, but he was small time. Got me sent to juvie too, you know?”

Len flashed a quick look over at Mick, but before Mick could respond, he continued. “Must have just missed each other. Then when I got out, I decided I wasn’t going to end up like him. I wanted no part of that life, but it was a close thing. A very close thing. Luckily, I fell into a legit job and just sort of stayed. And that’s _my_ story.”

Mick put down the pan he’d been washing and turned. Len was watching him now, waiting for a response the way he had waited of Len’s, with that silent knowledge that what had just been said might change everything. And maybe waiting for some of that same absolution too.

Mick didn’t think, just reached out and framed Len’s face in his soapy hands before pulling him in for a kiss.

Len responded immediately, both his hands coming up to grab Mick’s collar to drag him in even closer. He made a soft little “huhn” noise, as he opened his mouth to deepen the kiss. Mick took full advantage, pressing in with a growl. He wanted to devour Len, to taste every inch of him and take him apart piece by piece to see what made him tick, but this wasn’t the time. He licked carefully into Len’s mouth, thrilling at the way the light caresses made him squirm, and at the full body shudder he got when he lapped at the roof of Len’s mouth.

Len gave as good as he got, pressing his full length against Mick with slow, tortuous rolls of his hips. Mick turned them so that he was leaning back against the kitchen counter, legs spread just enough for Len to stand between them and slant his full body weight against Mick. For this move, Mick was rewarded by Len pulling back to hiss as their hard cocks rubbed against each other through their layers of clothing. Len immediately dove back in, and gave as good as he got, peppering Mick’s mouth with infuriating little bites, but never holding still long enough to let Mick get a good taste.

Mick dropped a hand from Len’s face, and grabbed his ass instead. The swell of muscle fit perfectly into Mick’s hand, and Len groaned as Mick squeezed it again. Mick reluctantly let go, and ran his hand up over Len’s waistband and under his shirt, _Mick’s_ shirt. Mick growled again as that thought alone pushed him even closer to the edge. The soft rub of the sweatpant material against his dick as Len continued to rhythmically thrust against him didn’t help either. At this rate, he’d come in his pants like a damn teenager.

Mick had just enough time to enjoy the warm skin beneath his palm as he ran his hand up Len’s back, before Len was pushing away.

“Stop, I can’t,” he said, breathing hard.

“Sure, you can.” Mick tried to lean back in for another kiss, but Len pushed him back, both hands pressed against his chest. He eyes were still closed, like they always were after sampling everything Mick offered him.

“Lenny…” Mick tried to pull Len in, but Len stepped back, out of his reach, leaving Mick cold and confused.

“No, Mick, I can’t. I… I can’t tell you why.”

Mick felt his heart stutter and grow cold. “Oh you can’t, huh? You got some big secret you can’t share? Tell me, is it something worse than burning your family alive or abandoning them when they needed you most? Because I told you all about that.”

“No,” Len said, so quietly Mick could barely hear him. “I just don’t want you to hate me.”

Mick felt all his anger leave in a rush. Fuck.

“I’m not going to hate you, Lenny. Whatever it is, you don’t owe me anything. I understand.”      

And he did. Just because Mick couldn’t keep his hands and emotions to himself, that wasn’t Len’s fault. He was under no obligation to return Mick’s feelings, and Mick sure as shit wasn’t going to guilt him into something he didn’t want. Sure, Mick had hoped for a fairy tale ending, true love’s first kiss and all that, but guys like him didn’t get a happily ever after.

“I think I’d better go,” Len whispered.

“Yeah. I think so too.”

Mick stayed leaning against the counter as Len quickly collected his things. Right before Len disappeared out of sight down the stairs, Mick couldn’t stop himself.

“Hey, Len?”

“Yeah?” Len looked back at him through the gaps in the handrail.

“I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah.” Len smiled sadly, then continued on down the stairs out of sight.

Mick waited for the sound of his door opening and closing, then Len’s car driving away. He brought his hands up to cover his face and let out a long, low groan. Of course Mick couldn’t have just been happy with a good thing, he always had to push it. And where did that always get him? Right back where he started.

Alone.


	7. Chapter 7

That night, all alone in his big, cold bed in his big, cold condo, Len couldn’t sleep. Fuck, he felt like an asshole. Len rolled over and tried to get comfortable on his goose-down pillows and 1,000 thread count sheets. His memory foam mattress didn’t feel nearly as soft as that old sofa’s in Mick’s apartment had when he’d sat on it to fold Mick’s clothes. The same clothes like the shirt of Mick’s he’d stolen and was now wearing in bed.

Len groaned and rolled onto his back. _Jesus Christ, Snart, obvious much? And what were you even thinking? That was some serious stalker level behavior, you were lucky Mick kissed you at all._

Len groaned again, this time for an entirely different reason. That _kiss_. A man would do terrible, terrible things to be kissed like that.  He ran his fingers over his lips. All that heat and power under his hands, against his lips, against his entire _body_ \--and he’d pushed Mick away.

Len dropped his hand with a sigh. Why had he done that? It wasn’t like Mick would have been the first chef he ever fucked who didn’t know Len was a food critic. Hell, he’d even given Mick a good review, _two_ good reviews, beforehand. So why did he feel so guilty? It wasn’t like there was any difference between sleeping with Mick after lying to him for months than there was with anyone else.

_Just keep telling yourself tha_ t.

Len rolled over, still unable to get comfortable. He knew the real reason. It was the same reason he’d folded Mick’s damn socks, and done his paperwork and kept showing up at the bakery door like a dog begging for scraps of attention. The same reason he’d told Mick about his father and going to juvie, and why he wanted desperately to tell Mick everything, let him know that Len was a caustic, two-faced critic who was hated by everyone in Mick’s profession who would one day turn that vitriol on Mick as well, for just a few moments of his reader’s amusement.

It was the same reason Mick’s life story didn’t repel him the way Mick had so clearly expected, but only made Len love him more.

Len pulled the blankets over his head in a vain attempt to block out the realization. _Love_. He had never felt it like this before, but knew that’s what it was. He loved Mick, was _in love_ with him and couldn’t bear the idea that Mick had told him everything, had told him his deepest, darkest secrets, and Len couldn’t even bear to tell him his own job. Mick deserved more than that, and that was the reason Len had pushed him away.   

But Len was selfish and greedy. He still wanted Mick more than anything, even if he knew that--for Mick’s own good--he couldn’t have him. So. If Len couldn’t stay away, and Mick deserved better, then Len was just going to have to redouble his self control. If he couldn’t control himself enough before that damn kiss and just been happy with a good thing, he’d have to do it now instead.

No more spending all day in the kitchen with Mick, laughing with him and working on the books. Mick didn’t need him for that now anyway, since Len had explained it, and the accounting software would make it much easier. No more secret parking space and special entrance. No, Len would use the front door, and wait in line like any other customer, and if he happened to see Mick, great, and if not, there was always the next time he came in. Or the next. Or...

Len nodded to himself in resolve, then sighed like the pathetic idiot he was. This was going to hurt.

He curled up in a corner of the bed. He’d take a day or two to wallow before heading back to Mama Rory’s. He was smart enough to recognize his pattern of avoidance, but one personal problem at a time.  

 

* * *

 

To his credit, Len only stayed away from the bakery for three days.

He came by on a midday lull so he wouldn’t have to stand in line for an hour, but when he saw the look on Amaya’s face he wished it had taken longer. Maybe then he’d know what to say to her.

“Just a cinnamon roll. No coffee.” He tried to act confident, and bored, like this is just his normal routine with a regular acquaintance and not someone who he’d jokingly called “Dr. Doolittle” for an entire week after she’d told him about her thesis, until Mick punched him in the arm and told him to quit harassing the staff.

He broke under Amaya’s glare almost instantly. “Please?”

She still didn’t move, and the woman in line behind Len coughed pointedly. Amaya glared at her.

“Wait your turn.”

She then turned the full force of that glare on Len. Len was used to having terrifying women pissed at him, he practically raised Lisa and Sara is his boss, but he was still petrified at the daggers in her eyes.

“You are one stupid motherfucker, you know that?” She said. The woman in line behind Len gasped but he didn’t have time to say anything himself before Amaya continued. “I am going to say this very slowly, but I am only going to say this once, so you’d better listen. Mick is my friend…”

“Just _friends_?” Len quipped, because yes, he’d figured that out about the same time Mick’s hands were getting intimately acquainted with Len’s ass, but still. Leonard Snart: professional asshole.

“No,” Amaya continued slowly, “Not ‘just’ anything. He is my friend. And that means that if you keep hurting him the way you’ve been hurting him, I’ll rip your balls off and feed them to you, understood?”

Len nodded. Of course, he was doing all this just so he _wouldn’t_ hurt Mick.

She stared at him for a beat, then shook her head. She grabbed the last cinnamon roll out of the display. “That’ll be $5.16, please.”   

Len didn’t say anything at being charged the “foodie” price, just handed her a ten, and turned to leave before she could offer him his change.

“Hey, Leonard?” she called out as he reached the door. “For what it’s worth, don’t think you and Mick are friends...”

Len’s heart sank. “I’m starting to get that, thanks,” he said. He was halfway down the block before she could respond.

 

* * *

 

Mick hummed thoughtfully as he carefully turned the miniature aluminum cups each containing their own personal sized serving of apple crumble. They looked okay, and smelled pretty damn delicious, but Mick had always been partial to apple and cinnamon, so what did he know.

Mick grabbed a fork out of one of the drawers and eyed the least attractive apple crumble warily. It _should_ taste good, it was still the same basic recipe as his grammy’s apple pie filling, but he’d never changed even a single ingredient or ratio in any of her recipes before and he was nervous.  

It was part of why he hated those damn Captain Culinary reviews. The man made him sound like some sort of baking genius, but Mick wasn’t a genius, he was just good at following directions. Anybody could do that. About the most adventurous he’d ever gotten was adding that creme de menthe to the chocolate mousse, but mint and chocolate? That was just obvious.

Mick’s traitorous mind brought up the memory of Len looking up at him while licking chocolate off his lips. He scowled and grabbed a mixing bowl.  

Okay sure, he might have _adjusted_ a couple of things, like changing from store-bought Red Delicious apples to those locally grown Braeburn apples when he’d learned that there even _was_ more than one kind of apple. Or when he’d adjusted the cook times and proportions so he could sell individual servings. Or when he’d tweaked the motor on the mixer to go even faster so that his meringues could be even lighter and fluffier. But that was just practical stuff. It didn’t make him some kind of pastry chef. If the recipe said apple pie, he ended up with an apple pie, and it was his grammy’s apple pie so it had to be good. But not this time. This time Mick had ended up with something different, made it into his _own_ recipe, and he had no idea if it was even sellable.

He cut into the crumble with the fork and was pleased to see a little steam escape, and the smell the scent of nutmeg fill the air. That was a new addition to the recipe too. He examined the small bite on his fork, _looks okay_ , before cautiously popping it into his mouth and chewing carefully.

It tasted… good? Mick sighed. At least there wasn’t anything obviously wrong with it. He’d never been that great of a judge of his own cooking anyway. Sure, he knew he was pretty alright, he’d never have sunk everything into opening his own bakery if he didn’t, but he had no idea what that Captain Culinary guy was talking about when he said things like “a cascade of decadence” or “a hedonistic explosion of pleasure” Not if he was talking about food anyway.

And then there were Len’s criticisms, which, sure, he was a dick about, but were sometimes actually useful.

“Try this.” Mick said, turning around with another bite on the fork and his other hand cupped underneath to catch it if it fell. He looked over at the counter where Len always worked and… Right.

Mick snarled and tossed the bite in the sink. He grabbed a clean fork and the rest of the crumble and took it out front. He took a quick glance around the tables in the bakery. No reason, just to see who was there. He certainly wasn’t looking for any smart-mouthed, long-legged figure in particular.  

“Need a second opinion,” he grunted, and thrust the fork and crumble at Amaya. She ignored him long enough to finish selling some kid with a mustache and a waistcoat a six-pack of lamingtons, then turned to him. Her look of exasperation quickly turned to one of understanding and pity.

“How’s it taste?” he asked.

She took a bite, then another. “It’s delicious,” she said, scooping more into her mouth.

He reached out to take the rest of the sample away now that she’d told him what she thought, but she hissed at him like one of her damn animals and clutched it closer.

“Back off, it’s mine.”

“Good enough to sell then?”

She rolled her eyes. If she wasn’t careful, her face was gonna stick that way. She ate the last few bites then handed him back the fork and ran a finger around the inside of the cup to get the last bits of crumble, before tossing it in the trash. “Yes, Mick, they’re good enough to sell. Now bring the rest of them out here then get back to work, we’re almost out of biscotti.”

Mick carried the fork back into the kitchen, grumbling. He hated biscotti. They reminded him of those fake bricks they’d used in construction to make it look like people had brick walls when they didn’t. Ever since he’d bought that damned espresso machine though, they’d been selling like hotcakes.  

Mick looked again at the empty spot where Len used to sit. Honestly, he was kind of pissed. Sure, maybe that kiss didn’t end the way he’d hoped, but he’d been a goddamn adult about it. He’d only sulked a little, and even then, Amaya was the only one who’d caught him at it. He hadn’t pressed Len on it, or mentioned it again whenever he saw him. Which was getting to be less and less often. Sure, Len still came into the bakery, but he hasn’t used the back door or even come into the kitchen once since then. He just acted like any other damn regular waiting in line to get their daily coffee and treat.

Or weekly coffee and treat.

Mick grabbed a set of measuring spoons and threw them on the counter. He was more mad at himself than anyone else. He’d used the money Len have saved him to buy that damn espresso machine just because Len had always harped him on the coffee. He’d figured that that would make him talk to Mick, but no, Len just started coming by even less often than before.

He’d even hired a new kid to run the damn thing. Turned out he was some kind of hot shot coffee genius who’d heard about Mama Rory’s and had actually begged Mick for the job. He’d been willing to help out with the daily cleaning and upkeep as well in exchange for total freedom over the coffee menu and Mick’s permission to “enhance” the machine however he saw fit. That last part worried Mick a little, but Ray was alright, and Amaya seemed to get along with him. But the word that Mama Rory’s now had the best coffee in town just meant longer lines, and longer lines meant even less Len.

And even more damn biscotti.

Mick walked over to the fridge and pulled out the eggs, butter, and a container of pre-zested lemon. That was another change he’d made in the weeks since their kiss. He’d taken Len’s suggestion about getting some help and called the Central City Community College. Turns out their culinary program had several baking kids who’d be thrilled to come in at the asscrack of dawn to do the prep work. He probably could have gotten more advanced help from some Culinary Institute kids, but the CCCC felt right.  

Mick had even mentioned this to Len on one of the very few times he’d seen him, dropping hints about more help would mean Mick could sleep in most days and would have much more free time now. But Len had just nodded and said, “That’s great” before paying for his food and finding a seat at the furthest table from the kitchen.

That was the last time Mick had seen Len and alright, fine. Mick could take a hint. Sure, maybe he’d been a little heavy handed with the “DATE ME DATE ME DATE ME” vibes, but Mick was trying. He thought Len would like how Mick had taken his suggestions, even when they seemed like a risk, or just added to the headache. Before, Mick had just had a quiet little bakery and one employee. Now he had a _staff_ , and a waiting list of kids who wanted to volunteer just to get the chance to learn from _Mick_.

But no. Len couldn’t handle a little bit of awkwardness. Fine. Whatever, fuck Len. He was probably getting his pastries somewhere else too. Not that Mick was jealous.

He put his hands on the counter and took a deep breath. Anger might help with kneading bread, but it was only going to make him fuck up the biscotti. He looked up at the clock on the opposite wall to time his breaths like his therapist had taught him, 1, 2, 3 in… 1, 2, 3 out… but his eye caught on the two frames under it. Amaya had gotten Captain Culinary’s reviews framed and hung them up in the kitchen, telling Mick he should be proud of his achievements.

You know what? Fuck Captain Culinary too. He wanted to call Mick an “old-school homestyle baker mastering all the basics”? Mick would show him “old-school” and “basics.” Mick pushed the biscotti ingredients aside next to the forgotten apple crumbles. If he thought Mick was so great, let’s see what he said when Mick _didn’t_ do what he was supposed to. He’d started Mama Rory’s just baking what he wanted, when he wanted. And he didn’t want to make any more damn biscotti or the same old recipes he’d made a thousand times.

Filled with this new determination, Mick stalked back over to the refrigerator and this time pulled out the chilled phyllo dough he’d showed the kids how to make that morning, just like his grammy had showed him.

He was going to make that damn baklava he’d been thinking about, and he was going to make it using no one’s recipe but his own. Hell, maybe he’d even make some kind of fancy garnish for them too. So what if you weren’t supposed to decorate baklava? If it wasn’t “traditional”? Mick was gonna make something that looked and tasted the way _he_ thought it should.

And if Len, or Captain Culinary, or every single customer he had didn’t like it, that was their problem.


	8. Chapter 8

Len carefully looked around the edge of his newspaper and watched while the tall guy with the hair made up his coffee. He felt ridiculous, like he was pretending to be a spy in a terrible movie. He lowered the paper.

He saw Rthe guy frown as he read the name Amaya had written on the cup, and stood, making sure his newspaper and half eaten tart lay on the table in such a way that suggested “This table is taken. Don’t even think about it.”

“Uh, ‘Moron’?” the guy called out uncertainly. “I have a triple dark cherry macchiato for ‘Moron’?”

“That’s me,” Len said, swiping the coffee from his hand. He glared at Amaya, but she didn’t deign to look his way.

Len took a sip as he returned to his table. Christ, that was good. Not as good as the cherry-chocolate tart he had gotten to go with it, of course. If Len knew Grammy had recipes like that up her sleeve, he would have begged Mick to make them for him months ago. Actually begged.

Len tried to push the thoughts of other ways he could have tried to convince Mick out of his mind. That right there was exactly why he’d had to step back and stop acting like he deserved to be with Mick in the kitchen. And when just visiting Mama Rory’s as a regular customer every day had turned out to be too much of a temptation, he’d limited himself to these weekly visits. Visits that he looked forward to from the second he walked out the door the week before.  

He knew he was pathetic, but he couldn’t help it. It just felt so right for him to be a Mama Rory’s, and he’d learned, if he took his time drinking his coffee, he had a better chance of catching a glimpse of Mick from behind his newspaper, even though Mick rarely seemed to come to the front of the shop any more.

Len was broken from his melancholy with the loud crack of a plate slamming onto the table next to his last few bites of tart. Len startled, nearly spilling his coffee and looked up to see who had dropped the plate.

It was Mick. Len drank in the sight of him. From this angle he looked _good_. He looked big. He looked hot.

He looked pissed.

Len opened his mouth to speak, not sure what he was going to say, but Mick spoke up before he even had the chance.

“Eat this.”

Len dragged his eyes away from Mick and looked down at the plate in front of him. It still rocked slightly back and forth from the impact. On the plate sat two pastries that Len could not immediately identify. They were round, but slightly lumpy and coated with a light glaze. They were still hot too, steam wafting up from them, but didn’t looked baked, more like they had just been pulled fresh from the fryer. The _new_ fryer Mick must have bought to go along with the new coffee machine, new staff, and all the other improvements he had made without Len’s help. Len was so goddamn proud of him and his success.

The glaze on the pastries melted from the heat, dripping slowly from the sides. Len breathed in, and was hit with the mouthwatering aroma of fried dough, autumn spices, and brown sugar.

“What is it?”

“Goddamn hipster food is what it is,” Mick said, crossing his arms with a sneer. “I took my croissant recipe and figured out a way to fry it like a donut. I hear that’s popular now.”

Len froze. It took him a minute to clear the saliva from his mouth before he could speak. “You made _cronuts_?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Naw,” Mick picked one of the pastries off the plate and tore a chunk off. The warm scent of cinnamon and apples hit Len, and he started to salivate again. Mick popped the chunk into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“I thought I’d try something new. I tweaked the recipe for apple filling and mixed that in.They’re more like fritters. I think they turned out okay though.” Mick said, talking while he ate. Len wished he could be disgusted by the sight and not desperately turned on.

“If I put them on the menu, I’m going to call them ‘critters’.” Mick smiled before taking another bite and nudging the plate closer to Len. “Go on. Tell me what’s wrong with ‘em.”

The sight of Mick’s smile hit Len in the gut and stole his breath. He knew he’d missed Mick, but at that moment he honestly had no idea how he’d managed without seeing him every day. Not happily, that was for certain. Len smiled back, just the smallest bit, then without breaking eye contact, picked up the closest pastry-- _“Critter”. What an enormous dork_ \--and took a huge bite.

Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Len’s eyes fluttered shut and he couldn’t help the frankly obscene groan that escaped him. He thought he had gotten used to Mick’s amazing skills. Or at least acclimated enough to keep from embarrassing himself in public. But the way the fried dough melted in his mouth leading effortlessly to the sweet kiss of sugar glaze before dissolving again into the bite of spiced apples left him almost shaking in his chair.

“So what do you think? Tell me the truth.”

Len blinked his eyes open. The truth? The truth was, this was the single greatest thing Len had ever eaten. Bar none. The truth was, it made Len feel warm to the very center of his core and melted away every fear or doubt that he had ever had. The truth was, he wanted to live with this feeling for the rest of his life.

The truth was, he would give it all up in a heartbeat in exchange for just _one_ of the proud, shy smiles Mick was giving him now. The truth was...

“I’m Captain Culinary.”

Mick’s smile morphed into a look of confusion. Len didn’t even notice, too intent on getting more of the critter in his mouth. He groaned again around another huge bite. This bite had even more of the apple filling than the first, and Len could die happily in that moment. Nutmeg. He loved nutmeg.

“You’re what?” Mick asked, uncertainty filling his voice.

“I’m Captain Culinary,” Len mumbled around the food in his mouth, blissed beyond all cares. What had he even been worried about? Telling Mick the truth felt _amazing_. He continued, “You know, that guy you hate? The one every chef in the city hates? God Mick, I’m sure you hate me even more now but I wasn’t trying to lie or dig up dirt or anything, I just couldn’t stay away and then it got to be too much because I wanted you. I wanted you so much but I couldn’t lie to you, so I tried to stay away but that was even worse.”

He swallowed the last bite of pastry down, and let its warmth give him the courage to finish. “I know I said shitty things to your about your food Mick, but it’s so good. It’s so breathtakingly good, so I said it in my reviews instead. And I meant what I said there. I love your food, I love your bakery, and I’m pretty sure I love y--”

Mick swooped down and shut Len up with a kiss.

Oh, yes. Yes, this. It was even better than Len had remembered. He made a needy noise and grabbed at Mick, desperate not to let him get away this time.

Mick opened Len up with his tongue and started to lick the taste of the pastry out of his mouth. Len tried to protest, but then he realized that Mick tasted like pastry too.

_Mmm, delicious_.

The kiss was so good, Len could hear a roaring in his ears, and he just wanted more and more, until suddenly he was wet and cold.

Len pulled back with a gasp. Oh. Turned out the roar had been the rest of the patrons in the bakery cheering and wolf whistling. Len immediately flushed with embarrassment. And the wet and cold had been?

“If you’re quite finished,” Amaya said from where she was standing next to Mick, one foot tapping impatiently and an empty water pitcher in her hand.

Len flushed even redder. He hadn’t been caught making out in public like that since he was in middle school. He turned to look at Mick, mortified.

Mick, who was grinning like a loon at him. His white tank top was soaked through and he had droplets of water caught in his eyelashes and oh, no. Amaya had really not thought this through at all.

Mick’s grin turned wolfish, and he grabbed Len again for a quick press of lips. He then took Len’s hands and pulled him to his feet.

“Amaya,” he said, as he backed toward the kitchen, bringing Len along with him. “I think we’d better close early today.”

“Dammit, Mick. You can’t just keep closing whenever you want. I don’t care if you two did finally pull your heads out of your asses, it’s called business sense. Len, tell him.”

“You’re right, Amaya,” Len said, not taking his eyes off Mick. “Terrible business sense. _You_ should definitely stay open. _Mick and I_ will be upstairs in his apartment however, and I’m sure sound travels…

Mick’s eyes darkened and he yanked Len in with a huff. Len laughed, and pushed him into the kitchen, before reeling Mick into a kiss.

They broke apart just in time to hear Amaya’s, “You heard the man. Bakery’s closed.” Followed by a disappointed “Awwww,” that Len was pretty sure came from the knitting circle of old ladies at the table next to his.

“Mmm, no sex in the kitchen, Lenny. Unsanitary. Get the health inspector on my ass.”

Len groped the ass in question. “Hmm, better take me upstairs then. No health inspector’s getting this, it’s _mine_.”

Mick growled and shoved Len out the back door, barely remembering to grab the keys from their hook. As the door swung closed behind them, Len caught Amaya’s voice drifting out saying, “...and if I hear one peep about Captain Culinary’s secret identity being discovered, I will ban every single…”

They finally got upstairs to Mick’s apartment, but Len barely had time to catch his breath before Mick was spinning him around and pinning Len’s back against the wall.

“I’m still mad at you,” Mick murmured, peppering bites down the side of Len’s neck.

“Okay, great. Yes, mad, yessss, right there…”

Len whined as Mick pulled back.

“I’m serious.”

Len sobered. “I know and I really am sorry, Mick. I should have told you or at least not run away, but I will do everything I can to make it up to you, I swear.”

“Mm, will you now?” Mick leaned in, lips brushing the delicate skin under Len’s ear with every word. “Because I have to tell you, Lenny. That might take a while, I’m really, really mad.”

He rocked his hips. Len forgot how to breathe for a moment, stars exploding across his vision.

“Okay, okay,” he said shakily. Mick was back at work on his neck. Len moaned, this was hell on his concentration.

“Can you be mad at me in a bed?” Len finally panted, “Because I’m too old to do this against the wall.”

Len caught Mick’s muttered, “Next time,” before he was being pulled again, this time down the hall and into Mick’s bedroom.

Len didn’t have a chance to notice any of the features of the bedroom, nor did he really care, before he was being tossed down onto the king size bed in the middle of the room. Literally, picked up and tossed. Len didn’t think he had a thing for being manhandled before, but apparently he had been wrong. _Very_ wrong.

Len sat up and yanked his wet shirt off over his head. He tossed it to the side and started to work on his belt, the looked up. Mick was standing at the foot of the bed, just watching him.

“What?”

“Nothin’, Mick said, shaking his head. “Just enjoying the show.”

Len rolled his eyes. “C’mere.”

Mick crawled onto the bed and settled into Len’s lap, facing him with one thick thigh either side of Len’s legs. Len wrapped his arms low around Mick’s back to hold him in place. Mick draped his heavy arms over Len’s shoulders and smiled down at him.

“Hey, there.”

“Hey, yourself. Planning to get this show on the road anytime soon?”

“Mmm, I dunno.” Mick cupped his hands around the back of Len’s neck and started kneading the muscles there.

Len hissed. Oh fuck, that felt good. Mick chuckled and moved his hands to Len’s bare shoulders. He started kneading again, this time with even more force, and Len dissolved. Len had never expected to be jealous of bread dough, but if this was how Mick handled the dough every day?

Len sobbed and dug his fingers into Mick shirt as Mick hit a particularly sore knot. Mick continued to work the spot, and the next thing Len knew, he was breathing in the cotton of Mick’s damp shirt, Mick’s solid form being the only thing holding him vaguely upright. Oh no, had he been drooling? How mortifying. He opened eyes that he didn’t remember closing. Right, Amaya’s impromptu wet t-shirt contest. He fisted his hands in the wet material at Mick’s back, pulling the translucent shirt tight across his chest. _Very_ nice. He’d have to buy Amaya a thank you card. Or maybe a thank you Porsche.

He groaned as Mick’s hands let up from the kneading motion and started brushing down Len’s back, sweeping away all the tension in his entire body. At the sound, Mick’s hips jerked against Len’s, and apparently there was one part of Len’s anatomy still capable of being upright. He snickered.

“Something funny?” Mick asked, pulling Len tighter against him and rubbing circles into Len’s back with his large, warm hands.

“Mmm, keep doing that,” Len mumbled into Mick’s chest.

“Thought you wanted to get this show on the road?’

Len sighed. Sex or massage? Sex or massage? Why did he have to make all the tough calls? He lazed against Mick, still deciding, until Mick brought one hand around and slid it into Len’s open fly.

_Sex_. Yes, definitely. _Definitely_ sex.

Len squirmed and plucked at Mick’s shirt.

“Off. Off, off, off…”

Mick laughed and pushed Len gently back. Len huffed as he fell back against the pillows, but before he could complain, Mick was stripping his shirt off with both hands over his head. The ability to speak left Len entirely, and he made a hungry noise.

Shirtless, sleepy Mick in a towel was one thing--one beautiful, glorious thing-- But shirtless, horny Mick, towering over Len and holding his hips down with his body weight? That was the kind of thing that could make a man weep. Or spontaneously combust. Honestly, Len was about 50/50 at the moment.

Watching Len through hooded eyes, Mick slowly unbuttoned his jeans and slid down his fly, inch by torturous inch. Tease. Len couldn’t look away as Mick pushed his jeans and boxer briefs down past his hips to just under the swell of his ass. His cock sprang free from the confining fabric and slapped up against Mick’s navel, leaving a small smear of precome just below his belly button.

Len gave another inarticulate noise. He needed that. He needed that now. He struggled to sit up, but Mick pinned him down effortlessly with one giant hand in the center of his chest. Apparently today was a day of firsts because Len was learning about all _sorts_ of kinks he didn’t know he had.

Mick rumbled out a laugh and started slowly stroking his cock with his free hand. He put on a show, moaning and rolling his hips against Len as he slowly palmed the entire length. It was quite a length. Len might feel self-conscious if he was capable of thinking anything more than _Want want want want want want…_ He struggled against Mick just enough for show, and was rewarded by Mick pressing him even more firmly into the bed. Mick grinned savagely and rocked his ass down against Len’s still clothed erection. Len could die happy.

“Hmm,” Mick said, rolling his hips again, making Len’s eyes cross. Mick slid his hand up to the head of his cock and gently rubbed the precome there with his thumb. “So, how you want to do this, buddy?”

Len choked, and tried to grab at Mick, but could only reach his thighs. His nails scrabbled against the unforgiving denim. Mick ignored Len’s plight and continued his leisurely stroking. His voice was barely more than a rumble as he spoke.  

“‘Cause I was thinking that I wanted you to fuck me, but now that I’ve got you here, I kinda wanna fuck you instead.” He tilted his head, considering, then nodded as if he’d decided something. “Definitely wanna taste you though. Let’s start there.”

That was all the warning Len had, before Mick was abruptly off him. Mick moved to the bedside table and rummaged in it for a minute. Len raised his head  to see what he was doing just in time to catch Mick’s wink as Mick shimmied off his own jeans and boxers before pulling Len’s pants and underwear off in one smooth motion. He didn’t even have time to enjoy the sight of Mick fully naked before he dove in.

Len shouted, his entire body curling up as he was enveloped in warm, wet heat. Mick slid his body in between Len’s legs, nudging his thighs until Len took the hint, and lifted his legs to drape one over each massive shoulder. Mick pressed closer, taking Len as deep as he could for just a moment, before pulling back to press light kisses to the underside of Len’s cock.

The move felt shockingly intimate to Len, more than anything they’d done before. The light press of Mick’s lips felt like more than just the promise of a good hard fuck, but of something more, something Len wasn't quite sure he could put a name to, but with Mick's help, it was something they could figure out together.

Len heard the snick of a cap being opened, then one of Mick's thick fingers, slick with lube, was pressing against his entrance, not penetrating, just there.

"This okay?" Mick asked, lips whispering against Len's overheated skin.

"Yeah," panted Len, hands twisting in the sheets. Mick pressed a quick kiss against Len's hipbone and Len felt a flush of tender warmth for this man. This wonderful man, who looked so tough, and whose life had been so hard, but who still maintained such a sweet tenderness that was evident in everything from his baking to his lovemaking.

Then Mick bit down on the spot he’d just kissed, sucking hard and worrying the skin with his teeth and that flush of warmth Len felt suddenly turned into something much hotter.

“Fuck! In me. In me now, you fucker.” Len kicked Mick’s bare back with his foot. Mick looked up from the hickey he made and grinned. He pressed his finger into Len unhurriedly, and Len threw an arm over his eyes with a groan.

“I hate you so much.”

“No, you don’t,” said Mick confidently. He pushed his finger all the way in and held it there, letting Len adjust.

“No, I don’t.” Len swore. He tried to twist his hips to get Mick’s finger to move or get even deeper, but was stilled by Mick pressing his other hand down against Len’s hip to hold him in place.

“Fuck you.”

“Next time,” Mick said amicably. He moved his finger in and out a few times, still at that maddeningly glacial pace, then slid a second one in alongside it. The entire time rubbing his thumb over the hickey he’d made.

“Really, Mick, a hickey?” Len asked when he had gathered enough brain cells to speak. He kicked Mick’s back again. “What, are you going to ask me to wear your letterman jacket next?”

“Mmm, you do look good in my clothes.” Mick agreed. “Look good with my mark on you too.”

With that, he started to lick the sensitive spot just under the head of Len’s cock at the same time his fingers, three now, found that perfect spot inside Len that made electric shocks shoot down his spine.

Len swore, then started shivering as his body was wracked with pleasure. Mick took the opportunity to get as much of Len in his mouth as possible. Len felt the head of his cock brush the soft palate of Mick’s mouth, then slide further, all the way into Mick’s throat. Mick hummed in satisfaction and Len’s hips bucked up uncontrollably.

Mick pulled off, coughing and resting his head on Len’s hip while he caught his breath.

“Sorry! Sorry,” said Len, running his hands soothingly over Mick’s scalp. _Well done, Leonard. Way to kill the mood._ The sharp stubble of Mick’s closely shorn scalp prickled against his palms, so he scratched lightly with his nails instead. In his lap, Mick just about started purring.

“S’okay,” Mick slurred, voice rough. He stayed there a minute though,basking in Len’s apologetic ministrations.

“Hey, get up here,” Len said softly. He shuddered as Mick gently pulled his fingers out, body clutching at the emptiness. Then Mick was above him, elbows braced on either side of Len’s face, looking down at him. Len leaned up for a kiss, and Mick met him halfway. He could taste himself on Mick’s tongue, a sharp bitterness that had his cock, which had softened somewhat, roaring back to full hardness.

He ran his hands over Mick’s arms, enjoying the way the powerful muscles flexed as they held Mick’s body over his own. Mick broke the kiss.  

“You don’t have to,” he said to a spot just right of Len’s ear.

“What?”

“You don’t have to touch them,” Mick said. “I know they’re gross.”

Len looked up at him quizzically, but Mick wouldn’t meet his eyes. _Gross?_ Gross was the absolute _last_ word Len would use to describe any part of Mick. Brawny, funny, passionate, intense, hotter-than-hell definitely, but gross?

He looked down at his hands still clutched happily around Mick’s biceps. Oh, did Mick mean his scars?

Mick sighed and started to pull away.

Len felt a rush of rage at whoever made Mick feel this way. He used his anger and Mick’s distraction to roll Mick over, riding the momentum until he was on top of Mick. Mick’s surprise gave him the second he needed to grasp both of Mick’s wrists, and pin them above his head in one hand.

“Now you listen to _me_ ,” Len said fiercely. He grasped Mick’s chin with his free hand, forcing him to look at Len. Mick’s eyes bugged out in shock, but he stayed silent.

“I want you, and that means every part of you. I love your scars, and not because I have to just because I love you, but because they are part of what _makes_ you the man I love. They’re a testament to your pain, your conscience, and how you work so hard to do the best you can every single day. I don’t want to just touch them, Mick, I want to _taste_ them. I want to know them better than I know myself, just like I want to know every part of you. Is that clear?”

Mick nodded, dazed. He raised one of his hands in Len’s grip, like a student waiting permission to ask a question.

“Yes?”

“You love me?”

“Obviously,” said Len with a bravado he didn’t quite feel. He _did_ love Mick, he was certain of it, but he wasn’t exactly used to saying the words.

“Oh,” Mick said. “Same.”

“Yeah?” Len asked, ducking his chin in a vain attempt to cover his sudden blush.

“Yeah. I love you too, Lenny.”

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”

Mick rolled his eyes at him, and they stayed there a moment, just looking at each other, before Len remembered other, more pressing concerns. He cleared his throat.

“I’m going to ride your dick now, and you’re just going to have to lie there and enjoy it.”

Mick laughed and let out a fake sigh, relaxing back into the bed. “If I have to.”

“You do.”

Mick shrugged. “You do what you gotta do, Lenny.”

Len grinned, and ducked down for a quick kiss that turned into a much longer and dirtier one than he’d intended, before scooting back. Mick broke Len’s hold effortlessly and reached out to fumble blindly with the same bedside drawer, before pulling out a condom and slapping it against Len’s stomach.

Len slid it over Mick’s cock as quickly as he could, knowing that if he lingered, he’d get distracted and not get what he really wanted. He squeezed a little bit more lube out and spread it over Mick before positioning himself over Mick’s hips. Mick grabbed onto his waist, and together they slowly eased Len down onto him.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Mick groaned. Len grit his teeth as his body adjusted. Ample prep or not, Mick was a lot to take in. Literally.

His body finally relaxing, he tried one experimental roll of his hips, only to be nearly thrown off the bed when Mick bucked up.

“Sorry,” Mick said sheepishly. “It’s been a while. Probably won’t last long.”

“Same,” said Len with a grin. He tried another roll and oh there, right there.

He let out a soft moan, and leaned forward, bracing his hands against Mick’s chest. Mick gasped as Len ran his hands over Mick’s scars, tracing one all the way across the tight bud of a nipple.

“That hurt?”

“Naw,” said Mick, running his hands up and down Len’s sides. “Just not used to it. Only me and doctors ever touched them before, and they certainly didn’t touch them like _that._ ”

Len’s heart ached for the man beneath him, and resolved to prove with his body, not just his words, how beautiful he found Mick. He continued tracing the scars as he moved over Mick, their bodies finding the perfect rhythm together that had them both groaning and gasping.

Len lay down, his entire body flush with Mick’s. The angle wasn’t as good, but this way he could taste Mick, trail his tongue and lips across his chest as his cock, slick with saliva and precome, rubbed against the flat planes of Mick’s stomach.

Mick wrapped his arms around Len, clutching him tightly as his thrusts sped up and and became more erratic.

Len whispered into the hollow of his throat, “That’s it, Mick. So good. Come for me.”

“Ah, Lenny!” Mick shouted, hips driving up one last time as he climaxed. Len tightened his body around him and Mick groaned and trust again. The second thrust hit Len just right and he gasped, shocked at the suddenness of his orgasm.

His come splashed against Mick’s abs and he rolled his hips, trying to get more of Mick against him and inside him. It seemed to go on forever, but when he finally came down, it was to the sight of Mick smiling down at where his head was pillowed on Mick’s chest. Mick ran a finger down Len’s nose and Len kissed it dreamily as it passed his lips.

“Well?” asked Mick, “How would you rate _that_ , Mr. Fancy Critic?”

“Hmm,” Len considered, idle tracing a pattern over Mick’s shoulder. “Passable. Simple and without frills, but satisfactory enough, I suppose.”

He grinned at Mick, “Needs practice.”

 

* * *

 

That evening, after round two and a quick break for food--where Mick learned exactly how Len felt about his cooking, which lead to round three before Mick could even suggest dessert--Mick stared at the man dozing in his arms.

They’d talked, and while Mick wasn’t thrilled with Len’s earlier actions, he could understand them. Besides, round two had consisted of Len doing whatever he could think of to make it up to Mick. And he’d been… thorough. Mick’s ass twitched at the memory. Still sore.

But now Mick was thinking about something he’d wanted to ask Len for months. Honestly, since the first time Len had gone over the books and pointed out where Mick was losing money. But back then, he had known that it was too hasty a decision. Now, months later, even after all their squabbles, or maybe because of them, because they came through them and ended up even stronger together, Mick knew it was something he wanted to ask.

“Hey, Lenny,” he said shaking Len gently. “Wake up, it’s important.”

“Mmm, I don’t think I can again,” Len said sleepily. “But you go right ahead, I’m here for you.”

Mick snorted. “Not that. Even more important.”

Len propped his head up on Mick’s chest and raised an eyebrow at him. Mick laughed, the movement jostling Len up and down. He crossed his arms over Len’s shoulders to keep him in place.

“I was thinking…” He said slowly. He needed to make sure to use the right words for something as big as this. “We’re good together.”

“I agree.” Len said with a suggestive roll of his hips.

Mick swatted the top of his ass. “Not just in bed,” he continued. “You figured out all those ways to make the bakery better, and pushed me when otherwise I would have just been making the same recipes until I died. And I keep you fed, and now, you have someone you can tell about your work and everything without worrying about your secret.”

“I love you for more than just your food, Mick.”

Mick relaxed at his words. _Why was he so worried? This was Lenny_.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly. “So, I was wondering. The critic thing doesn’t take up all your time, so maybe you could come work with me? I mean, I’d feel weird paying you because of the sex, but I thought--”

“Mick Rory, are you suggesting that I prostitute myself for pastries? Because I hate to break it to you, they’re good, but they’re not that good.

“Lenny…”

“Fine, fine. You’re right, they are that good. Just leave a stack of danishes on the dresser when you go.”

“I was asking if you wanted to be my _partner_ ,” Mick huffed. This man could exasperate a saint.

Len stilled in his arms. “Come again?”

“My partner. We run the business together. I do the baking, you do the books. With the new kids and everything, it’s more complicated than it was before, but I thought you’d like that. I got some other ideas to run by you too.”

He hesitated, unable to read the look on Len’s face. “You don’t have to. I mean, it was just a thought. We can still keep doing this if you wanted, without doing that. Or… not even, if you didn’t want to?”

Len cocked his head and looked at Mick with that piercing gaze that always made Mick feel like some kind of weird bug or puzzle piece that didn’t fit.

Finally, Len said, “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, partner, I’m in,” said Len, settling down again against Mick’s chest. He grinned up at Mick. “Seal it with a kiss?”

 

* * *

 

_...obviously the several hour wait times speak for themselves. For those who arrive too late to get a “critter” or have the misfortune to be there on a day that the ever mercurial, ever astounding, Chef Rory decides not to make them, never fear. The new offerings at Mama Rory’s are even better than those of my first two reviews, with the innovative chef providing modern twists on traditional classics that are fresh and original while still maintaining the phenomenally rich flavors and high standards of his original pastries._

_Finally, on a personal note, I must inform my devoted readers that I will no longer be reviewing bakeries, cafes, or--God forbid--cupcakeries. However, I will continue to review traditional restaurants with the same acerbic eye and discerning palate you have come to expect._

_This follows a recent move in my personal life that would constitute a conflict of interest._


	9. Epilogue

Mick groaned as he was pulled out of sleep by the sound of their bedroom door creaking open and Len cursing.

“Time izzit?” he muttered.

“About ten. Go back to sleep.”

“M’awake now.” Mick rolled over and fumbled for the bedside lamp. He finally clicked it on and rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the sudden light. His eyes focused just in time to see Len drop his cufflinks in the bowl on the dresser and start unbuttoning his shirt. Mmm, definitely a view worth waking up for. Mick grinned and settled back against the pillows, hands behind his head, to watch the show.

“No really, go back to sleep. I know what an ogre you are when you don’t get your beauty rest.”

“I’ll show you ogre,” Mick muttered, before cracking his jaw with a wide yawn. “Besides, I can sleep in tomorrow. Nate and Jax are coming in for prep, and Ray said he could handle anything else that came up. So I only need to get there to make sure everything goes in the ovens when it’s supposed to.”

“I scheduled Nate and Ray together?” asked Len as he slid the shirt off his shoulders, “What was I thinking?”

“I think it was something to do with me working too much, which is still hilarious coming from you,” Mick said. “Where were you, anyhow?”

“Antoine’s,” Len reached into the closet for a hanger.

“Oh, _Antoine’s_. I see.” In the dresser mirror, Mick caught the reflection of Len rolling his eyes and struggled to keep a straight face. “What’s this Antoine got that I haven’t?”

“Duck confit, for one.” Len replied, as he slid his belt off and hung it on one of the many closet hooks Mick had installed for just that purpose.

“And you didn’t miss anything,” Len continued as he started unbuttoning his slacks, “it was over-seasoned and over-cooked. And that was only the start of it. You know how steak tartare is meant to be raw? Well, you wouldn’t believe…”

Len trailed off as his eyes lit up with a fire Mick knew meant that Len was already thinking up devastating bon mots to completely eviscerate the restaurant in his next review. Len’s fingers twitched like they were already flying over the keys, the silver band on his left ring finger catching the light.

Mick sighed. When Len had told him that he was only going to be a restaurant critic part-time so he could devote more time to Mick and help out with the bakery, Mick had been thrilled. He should have known better.

It turned out Len’s definition of “part-time” was “continue shredding exactly as many overpriced restaurants in Central City as before” and “help out” meant “while at the same time singlehandedly making Mick the most sought after pastry chef in the state, mostly by turning important people down until they beg Mick to cater their events and throw stupid amounts of money at him for the privilege.” Mick had suspicions Len had even more planned, if the way he muttered things like “franchises… cookbook… suck it, Chef Duff…” in his sleep was anything to go by.

Mick hummed. But that was a worry for another day. If he wanted any chance of getting his husband into bed tonight, rather than finding him sacked out over his laptop tomorrow morning, desperate measures were called for.

“Babe,” said Mick in deep rumble that had Len’s hands instantly stilling and his eyes locking onto Mick’s, “If I’da known that was what you needed, I’d have given you a good hard _duck_ myself.”

Len’s jaw dropped open as he stared at Mick. His mouth worked silently for a few moments, trying to find words and failing. Mick preened even as he bit his lip to keep from laughing. It wasn’t every day he stunned his husband speechless. At least not with his words.

“Oh my God, that was… that was…” Len stuttered. “That was _awful!_ ”

“I learned from the best.”

Len laughed as he slid his pants and underwear off before tossing the underwear toward the laundry hamper and turning back around to hang the pants in the closet. Nice view, _very_ nice view, but still not exactly what Mick had been hoping for. He tried again.

“You know, people warned me marriage would be like this,” Mick let out a sigh almost as dramatic as one of Lenny’s own. “Once the honeymoon is over and you’re settled into your nice, quiet home that doesn’t smell like butter and burnt sugar all the time, you let the _spice_ go out of the relationship. Next thing you know, your husband is out at all hours, getting it _raw_ from some strange Frenchman…”

“Stop, stop,” Len laughed as crawled up the bed to Mick. He stopped  when he was straddling Mick’s lap, still chuckling, with one hand either side of Mick’s head. Mick grinned up at him, pleased as punch. Len smiled back, fondness tugging at the corners of his eyes. Then Mick let out a squawk as Len yanked the pillow out from under his head and hit him with it.

Mick made a grab for Len’s ticklish sides, earning him a squawk of his own, and then it was on. The ensuing wrestling match lasted several minutes, and ended with both the pillows and alarm clock being knocked to the floor, and Mick pinning Len underneath him at the foot of the bed. Len squirmed, unwilling as ever to accept defeat, and Mick groaned as the full length of Len’s naked and now sweaty body slid against his own.

“Mmm, that’s how it is, huh?” he asked, leaning down to playfully nip Len’s ear. Len threw his head back with a gasp and Mick added a few light bites to the side of his jaw for good measure. “You go and eat at whoever’s offering, because you don’t think you can get better at home? Such a foodslut, Lenny.”

“Oh my God, Mick. I’m a restaurant critic, it’s my job!” Len worked a hand free from Mick’s grasp and reached up to pull Mick’s head closer. Mick rewarded him with a scrape of teeth across his collarbone.

“Yeah, it's your job. So I guess that makes you a food _whore_ then. Put anything in your mouth for the right amount of pay, won't you?” Mick punctuated each word with a bite, working his way up Len’s throat. “Dirty. Little. Foodwhore.”

Len let out a breathless laugh, then groaned into Mick’s mouth as Mick kissed him deeply. When they finally broke apart for air, Len’s arm slid off Mick’s shoulder as he fell back, panting.

“Hey, Mick?”

“Yeah, Lenny?”

“Is this talk turning you on too?”

Mick raised an eyebrow, then rolled his hips, rubbing his hard cock firmly against Len’s own.

“Oh good,” Len gasped. “I’d hate to think it was just me.”

“God no,” said Mick, diving in for another kiss. He paused, his lips a hair away from Len’s. “This better not be a lead up to you using any sort of food-related dirty talk about my dick.”

“Of course not,” said Len, his eyes sliding away like the awful liar that he was.

“I mean it Len, one word about sausage or bananas or cucumbers and you’re sleeping on the couch.”

“But Mick,” said Len, blinking up at him guilelessly, “What if I want a taste of your cream?”

 

* * *

 

“Here,” said Amaya at Mama Rory’s the next day as Len tried to surreptitiously rub the kinks out of his neck. They needed to get a bigger couch. She set a plate down next to his calculator on the small table. “Mick said to give you this to tide you over until his break, and I really, really don’t want to know what that means.”

She turned away and strode off before Len could say anything. He looked down. On the plate was a single, _massive_ eclair.

Len looked over at the far end of the counter where Mick was kneading dough to the delight of an unnoticed, but very appreciative, cluster of tittering yoga moms. Mick snickered, then grinned at Len with a quirk of a “butter wouldn’t melt” smile. A smile that slowly slid off his face as Len wiped up a dollop of pastry cream with one long finger, then without breaking eye contact, stuck out his tongue and leisurely, methodically licked it off. He then picked up the eclair in both hands and brought it up to his lips. He opened his mouth extra wide, but then pulled the eclair back at the last moment.

“It’s a little small!” he called out.

Mick flushed bright red and whipped his head back around to the dough. He stared down at it like he’d forgotten what it was.

Len smirked. He picked up his pencil again, and ran the eraser against his bottom lip. Mick abruptly had something very important to do in the kitchen.

Len laughed as he stood up slowly and sauntered back to join his husband. Oh, yeah. This was going to be fun.

 


End file.
